


Pride & Prejudice & Mutants

by LuckyPanda13



Category: Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen, X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pride and Prejudice Fusion, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Based on a picture I saw, F/M, Gen, I Don't Even Know, M/M, Romance, i am unoriginal, what is WRONG with me?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-16
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-26 21:52:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 123,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6257278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuckyPanda13/pseuds/LuckyPanda13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a remote Hertfordshire village, far off the good coach roads of George III's England, a country squire of no great means must marry off his five vivacious children. At the heart of this all-consuming enterprise are his headstrong second child Charles Xavier and his aristocratic suitor Erik Lensherr — two lovers whose pride must be humbled and prejudices dissolved before the novel can come to its splendid conclusion.</p><p>Literally just <em>Pride & Prejudice</em> with X-Men characters and powers.</p><p>I am unoriginal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Volume I: Chapters 1 - 3

**Author's Note:**

> I found this picture of _Pride & Prejudice & Mutants_ and I thought it was both appropriate and funny.  
> So I decided to write it.  
> Most of this is literally just Jane Austen's words with the character names substituted, with a few alterations to fit the new characters' genders.  
> Because I'm weird.  
> What is wrong with me?
> 
>  **Character List**  
>  * indicates a character that is in the original novel, but I did not give them a Marvel counterpart name  
> All the side characters (there are about a million) have the same name as the original novel.
> 
>  **At Longbourn**  
>  Mr. Bennet -  _Mr. Xavier*_  
>  Mrs. Bennet -  _Mrs. Xavier*_  
>  Miss Jane Bennet -  _Miss Raven (Darkhölme) Xavier_  
>  Miss Elizabeth Bennet -  _Mr. Charles Xavier_  
>  Miss Mary Bennet -  _Mr. Azazel Xavier_  
>  Miss Catherine Bennet -  _Miss Angel (Salvadore) Xavier_  
>  Miss Lydia Bennet -  _Miss Emma (Frost) Xavier_
> 
>  **At Netherfield Park**  
>  Mr. Charles Bingley -  _Mr. Hank McCoy_  
>  Mr. Hurst -  _Mrs. Muñoz*_  
>  Mrs. Louisa Hurst -  _Mr.  Armando Muñoz_  
>  Miss Caroline Bingley -  _Mr. Janos (Quested) McCoy_
> 
>  **At Lucas Lodge**  
>  Sir William Lucas -  _Sir Christopher Summers_  
>  Lady Lucas -  _Lady Summers*_  
>  Miss Charlotte Lucas -  _Mr. Alex Summers_  
>  Miss Maria Lucas -  _Mr. Gabriel Summers_
> 
>  **In Meryton**  
>  Mr. Phillips -  _Mr. T’Challa Munroe_  
>  Mrs. Phillips -  _Mrs. Ororo Munroe_
> 
>  **At Rosings Park**  
>  Sir Lewis de Bourgh - _Sir Scott (Summers) de Grey_  
>  Rt. Hon. Lady Catherine de Bourgh -  _Rt. Hon. Lady Jean de Grey_  
>  Miss Anne de Bourgh -  _Miss Rachel (Summers) de Grey_  
>  Colonel Fitzwilliam -  _Colonel Cable_  
>  Rev. William Collins -  _Rev. Sean Cassidy_
> 
>  **At Pemberley**  
>  Mr. Darcy (the elder) -  _Mr. Lensherr (the elder)*_  
>  Lady Anne Darcy -  _Lady Rachel Lensherr*_  
>  Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy -  _Mr. Erik Lensherr_  
>  Miss Georgiana Darcy -  _Miss Moira (MacTaggert) Lensherr_
> 
>  **The Regiment**  
>  Colonel Forster -  _Colonel Rasputin_  
>  Mrs. Harriet Forster -  _Mrs. Kitty (Pryde) Rasputin_  
>  Mr. George Wickham -  _Mr. Sebastian Shaw_
> 
>  **In Town**  
>  Mr. Edward Gardiner -  _Mr. Logan Howlett_  
>  Mrs. Gardiner -  _Mr. Remy (LeBeau) Howlett_

**VOLUME I**

**Chapter 1**

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a spouse.

However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his first entering a neighbourhood, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of the surrounding families, that he is considered the rightful property of someone or other of their children.

“My dear Mr. Xavier,” said his lady to him one day, “Have you heard that Netherfield Park is let at last?”

Mr. Xavier replied that he had not.

“But it is,” returned she, “For Mrs. Long has just been here, and she told me all about it.”

Mr. Xavier made no answer.

“Do you not want to know who has taken it?” cried his wife impatiently.

“ _You_  want to tell me, and I have no objection to hearing it.”

This was invitation enough.

“Why, my dear, you must know, Mrs. Long says that Netherfield is taken by a young man of large fortune from the north of England; that he came down on Monday in a chaise and four to see the place, and was so much delighted with it, that he agreed with Mr. Morris immediately; that he is to take possession before Michaelmas, and some of his servants are to be in the house by the end of next week.”

“What is his name?”

“McCoy.”

“Is he married or single?”

“Oh! Single, my dear, to be sure! A single man of large fortune; four or five thousand a year. What a fine thing for our children!”

“How so? How can it affect them?”

“My dear Mr. Xavier,” replied his wife, “How can you be so tiresome! You must know that I am thinking of his marrying one of them.”

“Is that his design in settling here?”

“Design! Nonsense, how can you talk so! But it is very likely that he  _may_  fall in love with one of them, and therefore you must visit him as soon as he comes.”

“I see no occasion for that. You and the children may go, or you may send them by themselves, which perhaps will be still better, for as you are as handsome as any of them, Mr. McCoy may like you the best of the party.”

“My dear, you flatter me. I certainly  _have_  had my share of beauty, but I do not pretend to be anything extraordinary now. When a woman has five grown-up children, she ought to give over thinking of her own beauty.”

“In such cases, a woman has not often much beauty to think of.”

“But, my dear, you must indeed go and see Mr. McCoy when he comes into the neighbourhood.”

“It is more than I engage for, I assure you.”

“But consider your children. Only think what an establishment it would be for one of them. Sir Christopher and Lady Summers are determined to go, merely on that account, for in general, you know, they visit no newcomers. Indeed you must go, for it will be impossible for  _us_  to visit him if you do not.”

“You are over-scrupulous, surely. I dare say Mr. McCoy will be very glad to see you; and I will send a few lines by you to assure him of my hearty consent to his marrying whichever he chooses of the girls; though I must throw in a good word for my little Charlie.”

“I desire you will do no such thing. Charlie is not a bit better than the others; and I am sure he is not half so handsome as Raven, nor half so good-humoured as Emma. But you are always giving  _him_  the preference.”

“They have none of them much to recommend them,” replied he, “They are all silly and ignorant like other girls; but Charlie has something more of quickness than his siblings.”

“Mr. Xavier, how  _can_  you abuse your own children in such a way? You take delight in vexing me. You have no compassion for my poor nerves.”

“You mistake me, my dear. I have a high respect for your nerves. They are my old friends. I have heard you mention them with consideration these last twenty years at least.”

“Ah, you do not know what I suffer.”

“But I hope you will get over it, and live to see many young men of four thousand a year come into the neighbourhood.”

“It will be no use to us, if twenty such should come, since you will not visit them.”

“Depend upon it, my dear, that when there are twenty, I will visit them all.”

Mr. Xavier was so odd a mixture of quick parts, sarcastic humour, reserve, and caprice, that the experience of three-and-twenty years had been insufficient to make his wife understand his character.  _Her_  mind was less difficult to develop. She was a woman of mean understanding, little information, and uncertain temper. When she was discontented, she fancied herself nervous. The business of her life was to get her daughters married; its solace was visiting and news.

 

* * *

 

**Chapter 2**

Mr. Xavier was among the earliest of those who waited on Mr. McCoy. He had always intended to visit him, though to the last always assuring his wife that he should not go; and till the evening after the visit was paid she had no knowledge of it. It was then disclosed in the following manner. Observing his second child employed in trimming a hat, he suddenly addressed him with:

“I hope Mr. McCoy will like it, Charlie.”

“We are not in a way to know  _what_  Mr. McCoy likes,” said his mother resentfully, “Since we are not to visit.”

“But you forget, mamma,” said Charles, “That we shall meet him at the assemblies, and that Mrs. Long promised to introduce him.”

“I do not believe Mrs. Long will do any such thing. She has two nieces of her own. She is a selfish, hypocritical woman, and I have no opinion of her.”

“No more have I,” said Mr. Xavier, “And I am glad to find that you do not depend on her serving you.”

Mrs. Xavier deigned not to make any reply, but, unable to contain herself, began scolding one of her daughters.

“Don't keep coughing so, Angel, for Heaven's sake! Have a little compassion on my nerves. You tear them to pieces.”

“Angel has no discretion in her coughs,” said her father, “She times them ill.”

“I do not cough for my own amusement,” replied Angel fretfully. “When is your next ball to be, Charlie?”

“To-morrow fortnight.”

“Aye, so it is,” cried their mother, “And Mrs. Long does not come back till the day before; so it will be impossible for her to introduce him, for she will not know him herself.”

“Then, my dear, you may have the advantage of your friend, and introduce Mr. McCoy to  _her_.”

“Impossible, Mr. Xavier, impossible, when I am not acquainted with him myself; how can you be so teasing?”

“I honour your circumspection. A fortnight's acquaintance is certainly very little. One cannot know what a man really is by the end of a fortnight. But if  _we_  do not venture somebody else will; and after all, Mrs. Long and her nieces must stand their chance; and, therefore, as she will think it an act of kindness, if you decline the office, I will take it on myself.”

The girls stared at their father. Mrs. Xavier said only, “Nonsense, nonsense!”

“What can be the meaning of that emphatic exclamation?” cried he, “Do you consider the forms of introduction, and the stress that is laid on them, as nonsense? I cannot quite agree with you  _there_. What say you, Azazel? For you are a young man of deep reflection, I know, and read great books and make extracts.”

Azazel wished to say something sensible, but knew not how.

“While Azazel is adjusting his ideas,” He continued, “Let us return to Mr. McCoy.”

“I am sick of Mr. McCoy,” cried his wife.

“I am sorry to hear  _that_ ; but why did not you tell me that before? If I had known as much this morning I certainly would not have called on him. It is very unlucky; but as I have actually paid the visit, we cannot escape the acquaintance now.”

The astonishment of his family was just what he wished; that of Mrs. Xavier perhaps surpassing the rest; though, when the first tumult of joy was over, she began to declare that it was what she had expected all the while.

“How good it was in you, my dear Mr. Xavier! But I knew I should persuade you at last. I was sure you loved your children too well to neglect such an acquaintance. Well, how pleased I am! And it is such a good joke, too, that you should have gone this morning and never said a word about it till now.”

“Now, Angel, you may cough as much as you choose,” said Mr. Xavier; and, as he spoke, he left the room, fatigued with the raptures of his wife.

“What an excellent father you have, children!” said she, when the door was shut. “I do not know how you will ever make him amends for his kindness; or me, either, for that matter. At our time of life it is not so pleasant, I can tell you, to be making new acquaintances every day; but for your sakes, we would do anything. Emma, my love, though you  _are_  the youngest, I dare say Mr. McCoy will dance with you at the next ball.”

“Oh!” said Emma stoutly, “I am not afraid; for though I  _am_  the youngest, I'm the tallest.”

The rest of the evening was spent in conjecturing how soon he would return Mr. Xavier's visit, and determining when they should ask him to dinner.

 

* * *

 

**Chapter 3**

Not all that Mrs. Xavier, however, with the assistance of her five children, could ask on the subject, was sufficient to draw from her husband any satisfactory description of Mr. McCoy. They attacked him in various ways—with barefaced questions, ingenious suppositions, distant surmises, and begged Charles to read the man’s mind in the attempt to learn _anything_ about Mr. McCoy; but he eluded the skill of them all, reminding Charles that he was not to invade other people’s minds, regardless of what he was capable of, and they were at last obliged to accept the second-hand intelligence of their neighbour, Lady Summers. Her report was highly favourable. Sir Christopher had been delighted with him. He was quite young, wonderfully handsome, extremely agreeable, and, to crown the whole, he meant to be at the next assembly with a large party. Nothing could be more delightful! To be fond of dancing was a certain step towards falling in love; and very lively hopes of Mr. McCoy's heart were entertained.

“If I can but see one of my children happily settled at Netherfield,” said Mrs. Xavier to her husband, “And all the others equally well married, I shall have nothing to wish for.”

In a few days Mr. McCoy returned Mr. Xavier's visit, and sat about ten minutes with him in his library. He had entertained hopes of being admitted to a sight of the young ladies and gentlemen, of whose beauty he had heard much; but he saw only the father. The children were somewhat more fortunate, for they had the advantage of ascertaining from an upper window that he wore a blue coat, and rode a black horse.

An invitation to dinner was soon afterwards dispatched; and already had Mrs. Xavier planned the courses that were to do credit to her housekeeping, when an answer arrived which deferred it all. Mr. McCoy was obliged to be in town the following day, and, consequently, unable to accept the honour of their invitation, etc. Mrs. Xavier was quite disconcerted. She could not imagine what business he could have in town so soon after his arrival in Hertfordshire; and she began to fear that he might be always flying about from one place to another, and never settled at Netherfield as he ought to be. Lady Summers quieted her fears a little by starting the idea of his being gone to London only to get a large party for the ball; and a report soon followed that Mr. McCoy was to bring twelve ladies and seven gentlemen with him to the assembly. The children grieved over such a number of attendants, but were comforted the day before the ball by hearing, that instead of seventeen he brought only six with him from London—his five siblings and a cousin. And when the party entered the assembly room it consisted of only five altogether—Mr. McCoy, his two brothers, the wife of the eldest, and another young man.

Mr. McCoy was good-looking and gentlemanlike; he had a pleasant countenance, and easy, unaffected manners. His sisters were fine women, with an air of decided fashion. His brother, Mr. Armando Muñoz, merely looked the gentlemen; but his friend Mr. Lensherr soon drew the attention of the room by his fine, tall person, handsome features, noble mien, and the report which was in general circulation within five minutes after his entrance, of his having ten thousand a year. The gentlemen pronounced him to be a fine figure of a man, the ladies declared he was much handsomer than Mr. McCoy, and he was looked at with great admiration for about half the evening, till his manners gave a disgust which turned the tide of his popularity; for he was discovered to be proud; to be above his company, and above being pleased; and not all his large estate in Derbyshire could then save him from having a most forbidding, disagreeable countenance, and being unworthy to be compared with his friend.

Mr. McCoy had soon made himself acquainted with all the principal people in the room; he was lively and unreserved, danced every dance, was angry that the ball closed so early, and talked of giving one himself at Netherfield. Such amiable qualities must speak for themselves. What a contrast between him and his friend! Mr. Lensherr danced only once with Mrs. Muñoz and once with Mr. Janos McCoy, declined being introduced to any other person, and spent the rest of the evening in walking about the room, speaking occasionally to one of his own party. His character was decided. He was the proudest, most disagreeable man in the world, and everybody hoped that he would never come there again. Amongst the most violent against him was Mrs. Xavier, whose dislike of his general behaviour was sharpened into particular resentment by his having slighted one of her children.

Charles Xavier had been obliged, by the scarcity of partners, to sit down for two dances; and during part of that time, Mr. Lensherr had been standing near enough for him to hear a conversation between him and Mr. McCoy, who came from the dance for a few minutes, to press his friend to join it. It took every ounce of self-control Charles had to prevent himself from reading their minds. As much as he wished to, his parents had forbidden him and his siblings from ever revealing their powers or using them against others. So, Charles’ telepathy was resigned to the mental shield he put up to keep from hearing other people’s thoughts. As such, he was relegated to the standard form of eavesdropping: with his ears.

“Come, Lensherr,” said Mr. McCoy, “I must have you dance. I hate to see you standing about by yourself in this stupid manner. You had much better dance.”

“I certainly shall not. You know how I detest it, unless I am particularly acquainted with my partner. At such an assembly as this it would be insupportable. Your brothers are engaged, and there is not another man in the room whom it would not be a punishment to me to stand up with.”

“I would not be so fastidious as you are,” cried Mr. McCoy, “For a kingdom! Upon my honour, I never met with so many pleasant people in my life as I have this evening; and there are several of them you see uncommonly pretty.”

“ _You_  are dancing with the only handsome girl in the room,” said Mr. Lensherr, looking at the eldest Miss Xavier.

“Oh! She is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld! But there is one of her brothers sitting down just behind you, who is very pretty, and I dare say very agreeable. Do let me ask my partner to introduce you.”

“Which do you mean?” And turning round he looked for a moment at Charles, till catching his eye, he withdrew his own and coldly said: “He is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt  _me_ ; I am in no humour at present to give consequence to young men who are slighted by other ladies. You had better return to your partner and enjoy her smiles, for you are wasting your time with me.”

Mr. McCoy followed his advice. Mr. Lensherr walked off; and Charles remained with no very cordial feelings toward him. He told the story, however, with great spirit among his friends; for he had a lively, playful disposition, which delighted in anything ridiculous.

The evening altogether passed off pleasantly to the whole family. Mrs. Xavier had seen her eldest daughter much admired by the Netherfield party. Mr. McCoy had danced with her twice, and she had been distinguished by his brothers. Raven was as much gratified by this as her mother could be, though in a quieter way. Charles felt Raven's pleasure. Azazel had heard himself mentioned to Mr. Janos as the most accomplished man in the neighbourhood; and Angel and Emma had been fortunate enough never to be without partners, which was all that they had yet learnt to care for at a ball. They returned, therefore, in good spirits to Longbourn, the village where they lived, and of which they were the principal inhabitants. They found Mr. Xavier still up. With a book he was regardless of time; and on the present occasion he had a good deal of curiosity as to the event of an evening which had raised such splendid expectations. He had rather hoped that his wife's views on the stranger would be disappointed; but he soon found out that he had a different story to hear.

“Oh! My dear Mr. Xavier,” As she entered the room, “We have had a most delightful evening, a most excellent ball. I wish you had been there. Raven was so admired, nothing could be like it. Everybody said how well she looked; and Mr. McCoy thought her quite beautiful, and danced with her twice! Only think of  _that_ , my dear; he actually danced with her twice! And she was the only creature in the room that he asked a second time. First of all, he asked Mr. Alex Summers. I was so vexed to see him stand up with him! But, however, he did not admire him at all; indeed, nobody can, you know; and he seemed quite struck with Raven as she was going down the dance. So he inquired who she was, and got introduced, and asked her for the two next. Then the two third he danced with Miss King, and the two fourth with Gabriel Summers, and the two fifth with Raven again, and the two sixth with Charlie, and the  _Boulanger_ —”

“If he had had any compassion for  _me_ ,” cried her husband impatiently, “He would not have danced half so much! For God's sake, say no more of his partners. Oh that he had sprained his ankle in the first dance!”

“Oh! my dear, I am quite delighted with him. He is so excessively handsome! And his brothers are charming men. I never in my life saw anything more elegant than their attire. I dare say the lace upon Mrs. Muñoz's gown—”

Here she was interrupted again. Mr. Xavier protested against any description of finery. She was therefore obliged to seek another branch of the subject, and related, with much bitterness of spirit and some exaggeration, the shocking rudeness of Mr. Lensherr.

“But I can assure you,” She added, “That Charlie does not lose much by not suiting  _his_  fancy; for he is a most disagreeable, horrid man, not at all worth pleasing. So high and so conceited that there was no enduring him! He walked here, and he walked there, fancying himself so very great! Not handsome enough to dance with! I wish you had been there, my dear, to have given him one of your set-downs. I quite detest the man.”


	2. Volume I: Chapters 4 - 6

**Chapter 4**

When Raven and Charles were alone, the former, who had been cautious in her praise of Mr. McCoy before, expressed to her brother just how very much she admired him.

“He is just what a young man ought to be," said she, “Sensible, good-humoured, lively; and I never saw such happy manners!—so much ease, with such perfect good breeding!”

“He is also handsome,” replied Charles, “Which a young man ought likewise to be, if he possibly can. His character is thereby complete.”

“I was very much flattered by his asking me to dance a second time. I did not expect such a compliment.”

“Did not you? I did for you. But that is one great difference between us. Compliments always take  _you_  by surprise, and  _me_  never. What could be more natural than his asking you again? He could not help seeing that you were about five times as pretty as every other woman in the room. No thanks to his gallantry for that. Well, he certainly is very agreeable, and I give you leave to like him. You have liked many a stupider person.”

“Dear Charlie!”

“Oh! You are a great deal too apt, you know, to like people in general. You never see a fault in anybody. All the world are good and agreeable in your eyes. I never heard you speak ill of a human being in your life.” Raven’s adamant optimism likely had to do with her ability to shapeshift into whatever form she wished. She said that seeing the good in people helped her shift into their forms. Not that she was allowed practice. In the same way as Charles, and the rest of their siblings, she had been banned from exposing her powers to anyone. It would scandalize the family reputation if it came out they were not normal.

“I would not wish to be hasty in censuring anyone; but I always speak what I think.”

“I know you do; and it is  _that_  which makes the wonder. With  _your_  good sense, to be so honestly blind to the follies and nonsense of others! Affectation of candour is common enough—one meets with it everywhere. But to be candid without ostentation or design—to take the good of everybody's character and make it still better, and say nothing of the bad—belongs to you alone. And so you like this man's brothers, too, do you? Their manners are not equal to his.”

“Certainly not—at first. But they are very pleasing men when you converse with them. Mr. Janos is to live with his brother, and keep his house; and I am much mistaken if we shall not find a very charming neighbour in him.”

Charles listened in silence, but was not convinced; their behaviour at the assembly had not been calculated to please in general; and with more quickness of observation and less pliancy of temper than his sister, and with a judgement too unassailed by any attention to herself, he was very little disposed to approve them. They were in fact very fine gentlemen; not deficient in good humour when they were pleased, nor in the power of making themselves agreeable when they chose it, but proud and conceited. They were rather handsome, had been educated in one of the first private seminaries in town, had a fortune of twenty thousand pounds, were in the habit of spending more than they ought, and of associating with people of rank, and were therefore in every respect entitled to think well of themselves, and meanly of others. They were of a respectable family in the north of England; a circumstance more deeply impressed on their memories than that their brother's fortune and their own had been acquired by trade.

Mr. McCoy inherited property to the amount of nearly a hundred thousand pounds from his father, who had intended to purchase an estate, but did not live to do it. Mr. McCoy intended it likewise, and sometimes made choice of his county; but as he was now provided with a good house and the liberty of a manor, it was doubtful to many of those who best knew the easiness of his temper, whether he might not spend the remainder of his days at Netherfield, and leave the next generation to purchase.

His brothers were anxious for his having an estate of his own; but, though he was now only established as a tenant, Mr. Janos was by no means unwilling to preside at his table—nor was Mr. Muñoz, who had married a woman of more fashion than fortune, less disposed to consider her house as his home when it suited him. Mr. McCoy had not been of age two years, when he was tempted by an accidental recommendation to look at Netherfield House. He did look at it, and into it for half-an-hour—was pleased with the situation and the principal rooms, satisfied with what the owner said in its praise, and took it immediately.

Between him and Lensherr there was a very steady friendship, in spite of great opposition of character. McCoy was endeared to Lensherr by the easiness, openness, and ductility of his temper, though no disposition could offer a greater contrast to his own, and though with his own he never appeared dissatisfied. The two of them were close enough in friendship to know intimate details of the other’s life, to the point where they were aware of the powers the other had. McCoy was stronger than the average man, with other enhanced abilities that accompanied that. Lensherr on the other hand, was relegated to the manipulation and generation of electromagnetic fields, a far subtler power than McCoy’s. On the strength of Lensherr's regard, McCoy had the firmest reliance, and of his judgement the highest opinion. In understanding, Lensherr was the superior. McCoy was by no means deficient, but Lensherr was clever. He was at the same time haughty, reserved, and fastidious, and his manners, though well-bred, were not inviting. In that respect his friend had greatly the advantage. McCoy was sure of being liked wherever he appeared, Lensherr was continually giving offense.

The manner in which they spoke of the Meryton assembly was sufficiently characteristic. McCoy had never met with more pleasant people or prettier girls in his life; everybody had been most kind and attentive to him; there had been no formality, no stiffness; he had soon felt acquainted with all the room; and, as to Miss Xavier, he could not conceive an angel more beautiful. Lensherr, on the contrary, had seen a collection of people in whom there was little beauty and no fashion, for none of whom he had felt the smallest interest, and from none received either attention or pleasure. Miss Xavier he acknowledged to be pretty, but she smiled too much.

Mr. Muñoz and his brother allowed it to be so—but still they admired her and liked her, and pronounced her to be a sweet girl, and one whom they would not object to know more of. Miss Xavier was therefore established as a sweet girl, and their brother felt authorized by such commendation to think of her as he chose.

 

* * *

 

**Chapter 5**

Within a short walk of Longbourn lived a family with whom the Xaviers were particularly intimate. Sir Christopher Summers had been formerly in trade in Meryton, where he had made a tolerable fortune, and risen to the honour of knighthood by an address to the king during his mayoralty. The distinction had perhaps been felt too strongly. It had given him a disgust to his business, and to his residence in a small market town; and, in quitting them both, he had removed with his family to a house about a mile from Meryton, denominated from that period Lucas Lodge, where he could think with pleasure of his own importance, and, unshackled by business, occupy himself solely in being civil to all the world. For, though elated by his rank, it did not render him supercilious; on the contrary, he was all attention to everybody. By nature inoffensive, friendly, and obliging, his presentation at St. James's had made him courteous.

Lady Summers was a very good kind of woman, not too clever to be a valuable neighbour to Mrs. Xavier. They had several children. The eldest of them, a sensible, intelligent young man, about twenty-seven, was Elizabeth's intimate friend. As such, he knew about Charles’ telepathic abilities and Charles knew, in response, Alex’s ability to absorb energy and discharge it in blasts. Alex, as well, was forbidden from ever showcasing his powers by his parents. Charles and Alex had wondered together if _everyone_ they knew had powers, but were all forced by society to keep them a secret.

That the Summers’ and the Xaviers should meet to talk over a ball was absolutely necessary; and the morning after the assembly brought the former to Longbourn to hear and to communicate.

“ _You_  began the evening well, Alex,” said Mrs. Xavier with civil self-command to Mr. Alex. “ _You_  were Mr. McCoy's first choice.”

“Yes; but he seemed to like his second better.”

“Oh! You mean Raven, I suppose, because he danced with her twice. To be sure that  _did_  seem as if he admired her—indeed I rather believe he  _did_ —I heard something about it—but I hardly know what—something about Mr. Robinson.”

“Perhaps you mean what I overheard between him and Mr. Robinson; did not I mention it to you? Mr. Robinson's asking him how he liked our Meryton assemblies, and whether he did not think there were a great many pretty women in the room, and  _which_  he thought the prettiest? And his answering immediately to the last question: ‘Oh! the eldest Miss Xavier, beyond a doubt; there cannot be two opinions on that point’.”

“Upon my word! Well, that is very decided indeed—that does seem as if—but, however, it may all come to nothing, you know.”

“ _My_  overhearings were more to the purpose than  _yours_ , Charles," said Alex, "Mr. Lensherr is not so well worth listening to as his friend, is he?—poor Charles!—to be only just  _tolerable_.”

“I beg you would not put it into Charlie's head to be vexed by his ill-treatment, for he is such a disagreeable man, that it would be quite a misfortune to be liked by him. Mrs. Long told me last night that he sat close to her for half-an-hour without once opening his lips.”

“Are you quite sure, ma'am?—is not there a little mistake?" said Raven, "I certainly saw Mr. Lensherr speaking to her.”

“Aye—because she asked him at last how he liked Netherfield, and he could not help answering her; but she said he seemed quite angry at being spoke to.”

“Mr. Janos told me," said Raven, “That he never speaks much, unless among his intimate acquaintances. With  _them_  he is remarkably agreeable.”

“I do not believe a word of it, my dear. If he had been so very agreeable, he would have talked to Mrs. Long. But I can guess how it was; everybody says that he is eat up with pride, and I dare say he had heard somehow that Mrs. Long does not keep a carriage, and had come to the ball in a hack chaise.”

“I do not mind his not talking to Mrs. Long,” said Mr. Alex, “But I wish he had danced with Charles.”

“Another time, Charlie,” said his mother, “I would not dance with  _him_ , if I were you.”

“I believe, ma'am, I may safely promise you  _never_  to dance with him.”

“His pride,” said Mr. Alex, “Does not offend  _me_  so much as pride often does, because there is an excuse for it. One cannot wonder that so very fine a young man, with family, fortune, everything in his favour, should think highly of himself. If I may so express it, he has a  _right_  to be proud.”

“That is very true,” replied Charles, “And I could easily forgive  _his_  pride, if he had not mortified  _mine_.”

“Pride,” observed Azazel, who piqued himself upon the solidity of his reflections, “Is a very common failing, I believe. By all that I have ever read, I am convinced that it is very common indeed; that human nature is particularly prone to it, and that there are very few of us who do not cherish a feeling of self-complacency on the score of some quality or other, real or imaginary. Vanity and pride are different things, though the words are often used synonymously. A person may be proud without being vain. Pride relates more to our opinion of ourselves, vanity to what we would have others think of us.”

“If I were as rich as Mr. Lensherr," cried a young Gabriel Summers, who came with his siblings, “I should not care how proud I was. I would keep a pack of foxhounds, and drink a bottle of wine a day.”

“Then you would drink a great deal more than you ought,” said Mrs. Xavier, “And if I were to see you at it, I should take away your bottle directly.”

The boy protested that she should not; she continued to declare that she would, and the argument ended only with the visit.

 

* * *

 

**Chapter 6**

The children of Longbourn soon waited on those of Netherfield. The visit was soon returned in due form. Miss Xavier's pleasing manners grew on the goodwill of Mr. Muñoz and Mr. Janos; and though the mother was found to be intolerable, and the younger siblings not worth speaking to, a wish of being better acquainted with  _them_  was expressed towards the two eldest. By  
Raven, this attention was received with the greatest pleasure, but Charles still saw superciliousness in their treatment of everybody, hardly excepting even his sister, and could not like them; though their kindness to Raven, such as it was, had a value as arising in all probability from the influence of their brother's admiration. It was generally evident whenever they met, that he  _did_  admire her and to  _him_  it was equally evident that Raven was yielding to the preference which she had begun to entertain for him from the first, and was in a way to be very much in love; but he considered with pleasure that it was not likely to be discovered by the world in general, since Raven united, with great strength of feeling, a composure of temper and a uniform cheerfulness of manner which would guard her from the suspicions of the impertinent. He mentioned this to his friend Mr. Alex.

“It may perhaps be pleasant,” replied Alex, “To be able to impose on the public in such a case; but it is sometimes a disadvantage to be so very guarded. If a woman conceals her affection with the same skill from the object of it, she may lose the opportunity of fixing him; and it will then be but poor consolation to believe the world equally in the dark. There is so much of gratitude or vanity in almost every attachment, that it is not safe to leave any to itself. We can all  _begin_  freely—a slight preference is natural enough; but there are very few of us who have heart enough to be really in love without encouragement. In nine cases out of ten a women had better show  _more_  affection than she feels. McCoy likes your sister undoubtedly; but he may never do more than like her, if she does not help him on.”

“But she does help him on, as much as her nature will allow. If I can perceive her regard for him, he must be a simpleton, indeed, not to discover it too.”

“Remember, Charles, that he does not know Raven's disposition as you do.”

“But if a woman is partial to a man, and does not endeavour to conceal it, he must find it out.”

“Perhaps he must, if he sees enough of her. But, though McCoy and Raven meet tolerably often, it is never for many hours together; and, as they always see each other in large mixed parties, it is impossible that every moment should be employed in conversing together. Raven should therefore make the most of every half-hour in which she can command his attention. When she is secure of him, there will be more leisure for falling in love as much as she chooses.”

“Your plan is a good one,” replied Charles, “Where nothing is in question but the desire of being well married, and if I were determined to get a rich husband, or any husband, I dare say I should adopt it. But these are not Raven's feelings; she is not acting by design. As yet, she cannot even be certain of the degree of her own regard nor of its reasonableness. She has known him only a fortnight. She danced four dances with him at Meryton; she saw him one morning at his own house, and has since dined with him in company four times. This is not quite enough to make her understand his character.”

“Not as you represent it. Had she merely  _dined_  with him, she might only have discovered whether he had a good appetite; but you must remember that four evenings have also been spent together—and four evenings may do a great deal.”

“Yes; these four evenings have enabled them to ascertain that they both like Vingt-un better than Commerce; but with respect to any other leading characteristic, I do not imagine that much has been unfolded.”

“Well,” said Alex, “I wish Raven success with all my heart; and if she were married to him to-morrow, I should think she had as good a chance of happiness as if she were to be studying his character for a twelvemonth. Happiness in marriage is entirely a matter of chance. If the dispositions of the parties are ever so well known to each other or ever so similar beforehand, it does not advance their felicity in the least. They always continue to grow sufficiently unlike afterwards to have their share of vexation; and it is better to know as little as possible of the defects of the person with whom you are to pass your life.”

“You make me laugh, Alex; but it is not sound. You know it is not sound, and that you would never act in this way yourself.”

Occupied in observing Mr. McCoy's attentions to her sister, Charles was far from suspecting that she was herself becoming an object of some interest in the eyes of his friend. Mr. Lensherr had at first scarcely allowed him to be pretty; he had looked at him without admiration at the ball; and when they next met, he looked at him only to criticise. But no sooner had he made it clear to himself and his friends that Charles hardly had a good feature in his face, than he began to find it was rendered uncommonly intelligent by the beautiful expression of his blue eyes. To this discovery succeeded some others equally mortifying. Though he had detected with a critical eye more than one failure of perfect symmetry in Charles’ form, he was forced to acknowledge his figure to be light and pleasing; and in spite of his asserting that Charles’ manners were not those of the fashionable world, he was caught by their easy playfulness. Of this Charles was perfectly unaware; to him Mr. Lensherr was only the man who made himself agreeable nowhere, and who had not thought him handsome enough to dance with.

Mr. Lensherr began to wish to know more of Charles, and as a step towards conversing with him himself, attended to his conversation with others. His doing so drew Charles’ notice. It was at Sir Christopher Summers', where a large party were assembled.

“What does Mr. Lensherr mean,” said he to Alex, “By listening to my conversation with Colonel Rasputin?”

“That is a question which Mr. Lensherr only can answer.”

“But if he does it any more I shall certainly let him know that I see what he is about. He has a very satirical eye, and if I do not begin by being impertinent myself, I shall soon grow afraid of him.”

On his approaching them soon afterwards, though without seeming to have any intention of speaking, Mr. Alex defied his friend to mention such a subject to him; which immediately provoking Charles to do it, he turned to him and said:

“Did you not think, Mr. Lensherr, that I expressed myself uncommonly well just now, when I was teasing Colonel Rasputin to give us a ball at Meryton?”

“With great energy; but it is always a subject which makes one energetic.”

“You are severe on us.”

“It will be  _his_  turn soon to be teased,” said Mr. Alex, “I am going to open the instrument, Charles, and you know what follows.”

“You are a very strange creature by way of a friend!—always wanting me to play and sing before anybody and everybody! If my vanity had taken a musical turn, you would have been invaluable; but as it is, I would really rather not sit down before those who must be in the habit of hearing the very best performers.” On Mr. Alex’ persevering, however, he added, “Very well, if it must be so, it must.” And gravely glancing at Mr. Lensherr, “There is a fine old saying, which everybody here is of course familiar with: ‘Keep your breath to cool your porridge’; and I shall keep mine to swell my song.”

His performance was pleasing, though by no means capital. After a song or two, and before he could reply to the entreaties of several that he would sing again, he was eagerly succeeded at the instrument by his brother Azazel, who having, in consequence of being the only plain one in the family, worked hard for knowledge and accomplishments, was always impatient for display.

Azazel had neither genius nor taste; and though vanity had given him application, it had given him likewise a pedantic air and conceited manner, which would have injured a higher degree of excellence than he had reached. Charles, easy and unaffected, had been listened to with much more pleasure, though not playing half so well; and Azazel, at the end of a long concerto, was glad to purchase praise and gratitude by Scotch and Irish airs, at the request of his younger sisters, who, with some of the Summerses, and two or three officers, joined eagerly in dancing at one end of the room.

Mr. Lensherr stood near them in silent indignation at such a mode of passing the evening, to the exclusion of all conversation, and was too much engrossed by his thoughts to perceive that Sir Christopher Summers was his neighbour, till Sir Christopher thus began:

“What a charming amusement for young people this is, Mr. Lensherr! There is nothing like dancing after all. I consider it as one of the first refinements of polished society.”

“Certainly, sir; and it has the advantage also of being in vogue amongst the less polished societies of the world. Every savage can dance.”

Sir Christopher only smiled. “Your friend performs delightfully,” He continued after a pause, on seeing McCoy join the group, “And I doubt not that you are an adept in the science yourself, Mr. Lensherr.”

“You saw me dance at Meryton, I believe, sir.”

Yes, indeed, and received no inconsiderable pleasure from the sight. Do you often dance at St. James's?”

“Never, sir.”

“Do you not think it would be a proper compliment to the place?”

“It is a compliment which I never pay to any place if I can avoid it.”

“You have a house in town, I conclude?”

Mr. Lensherr bowed.

“I had once had some thought of fixing in town myself—for I am fond of superior society; but I did not feel quite certain that the air of London would agree with Lady Summers.”

He paused in hopes of an answer; but his companion was not disposed to make any; and Charles at that instant moving towards them, he was struck with the action of doing a very gallant thing, and called out to him:

“My dear Mr. Charles, why are you not dancing? Mr. Lensherr, you must allow me to present this young gentleman to you as a very desirable partner. You cannot refuse to dance, I am sure when so much beauty is before you.” And, taking his hand, he would have given it to Mr. Lensherr who, though extremely surprised, was not unwilling to receive it, when Charles instantly drew back, and said with some discomposure to Sir Christopher:

“Indeed, sir, I have not the least intention of dancing. I entreat you not to suppose that I moved this way in order to beg for a partner.”

Mr. Lensherr, with grave propriety, requested to be allowed the honour of his hand, but in vain. Charles was determined; nor did Sir Christopher at all shake his purpose by his attempt at persuasion.

“You excel so much in the dance, Mr. Charles, that it is cruel to deny me the happiness of seeing you; and though this gentleman dislikes the amusement in general, he can have no objection, I am sure, to oblige us for one half-hour.”

“Mr. Lensherr is all politeness," said Charles, smiling.

“He is, indeed; but, considering the inducement, my dear Mr. Charles, we cannot wonder at his complaisance—for who would object to such a partner?”

Charles looked archly, and turned away. His resistance had not injured him with the gentleman, and he was thinking of him with some complacency, when thus accosted by Mr. Janos:

“I can guess the subject of your reverie.”

“I should imagine not.”

“You are considering how insupportable it would be to pass many evenings in this manner—in such society; and indeed I am quite of your opinion. I was never more annoyed! The insipidity, and yet the noise—the nothingness, and yet the self-importance of all those people! What would I give to hear your strictures on them!”

“Your conjecture is totally wrong, I assure you. My mind was more agreeably engaged. I have been meditating on the very great pleasure which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty man can bestow.”

Mr. Janos immediately fixed his eyes on Mr. Lensherr’s face, and desired he would tell him what man had the credit of inspiring such reflections. Mr. Lensherr replied with great intrepidity:

“Mr. Charles Xavier.”

“Mr. Charles Xavier!" repeated Mr. Janos. “I am all astonishment. How long has she been such a favourite?—and pray, when am I to wish you joy?”

“That is exactly the question which I expected you to ask. A young person's imagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration to love, from love to matrimony, in a moment. I knew you would be wishing me joy.”

“Nay, if you are serious about it, I shall consider the matter is absolutely settled. You will be having a charming mother-in-law, indeed; and, of course, she will always be at Pemberley with you.”

He listened to Mr. Janos with perfect indifference while he chose to entertain himself in this manner; and as his composure convinced him that all was safe, his wit flowed long.


	3. Volume I: Chapters 7 - 9

**Chapter 7**

Mr. Xavier's property consisted almost entirely in an estate of two thousand a year, which, unfortunately for his children, was entailed, in default of an old promise, on a distant relation; and their mother's fortune, though ample for her situation in life, could but ill supply the deficiency of his. Her father had been an attorney in Meryton, and had left her four thousand pounds.

She had a sister married to a Mr. Munroe, who had been a clerk to their father and succeeded him in the business, and a brother settled in London in a respectable line of trade.

The village of Longbourn was only one mile from Meryton; a most convenient distance for the young people, who were usually tempted thither three or four times a week, to pay their duty to their aunt and to a milliner's shop just over the way. The two youngest of the family, Angel and Emma, were particularly frequent in these attentions; their minds were more vacant than their siblings', and when nothing better offered, a walk to Meryton was necessary to amuse their morning hours and furnish conversation for the evening; and however bare of news the country in general might be, they always contrived to learn some from their aunt. The only other thing that could occupy their attention was practicing their powers, Angel with her flight and acidic spit, and Emma with her telepathy and diamond skin. Since they were banned from such activities, they had to make do with their walks to Meryton. At present, indeed, they were well supplied both with news and happiness by the recent arrival of a militia regiment in the neighbourhood; it was to remain the whole winter, and Meryton was the headquarters.

Their visits to Mrs. Munroe were now productive of the most interesting intelligence. Every day added something to their knowledge of the officers' names and connections. Their lodgings were not long a secret, and at length they began to know the officers themselves. Mr. Munroe visited them all, and this opened to his nieces and nephews a store of felicity unknown before. They could talk of nothing but officers; and Mr. McCoy's large fortune, the mention of which gave animation to their mother, was worthless in their eyes when opposed to the regimentals of an ensign.

After listening one morning to their effusions on this subject, Mr. Xavier coolly observed:

“From all that I can collect by your manner of talking, you must be two of the silliest girls in the country. I have suspected it some time, but I am now convinced.”

Angel was disconcerted, and made no answer; but Emma, with perfect indifference, continued to express her admiration of Captain Carter, and her hope of seeing him in the course of the day, as he was going the next morning to London.

“I am astonished, my dear,” said Mrs. Xavier, “That you should be so ready to think your own children silly. If I wished to think slightingly of anybody's children, it should not be of my own, however.”

“If my children are silly, I must hope to be always sensible of it.”

“Yes—but as it happens, they are all of them very clever.”

“This is the only point, I flatter myself, on which we do not agree. I had hoped that our sentiments coincided in every particular, but I must so far differ from you as to think our two youngest daughters uncommonly foolish.”

“My dear Mr. Xavier, you must not expect such girls to have the sense of their father and mother. When they get to our age, I dare say they will not think about officers any more than we do. I remember the time when I liked a red coat myself very well—and, indeed, so I do still at my heart; and if a smart young colonel, with five or six thousand a year, should want one of my girls I shall not say nay to him; and I thought Colonel Rasputin looked very becoming the other night at Sir Christopher's in his regimentals.”

“Mamma,” cried Emma, “My aunt says that Colonel Rasputin and Captain Carter do not go so often to Miss Watson's as they did when they first came; she sees them now very often standing in Clarke's library.”

Mrs. Xavier was prevented replying by the entrance of the footman with a note for Miss Xavier; it came from Netherfield, and the servant waited for an answer. Mrs. Xavier's eyes sparkled with pleasure, and she was eagerly calling out, while her daughter read,

“Well, Raven, who is it from? What is it about? What does he say? Well, Raven, make haste and tell us; make haste, my love.”

“It is from Mr. Janos," said Raven, and then read it aloud.

_MY DEAR FRIEND,—_

_If you are not so compassionate as to dine to-day with Armando and me, we shall be in danger of hating each other for the rest of our lives, for a whole day's tete-a-tete between two men can never end without a quarrel. Come as soon as you can on receipt of this. My brother and the gentlemen are to dine with the officers._

_—Yours ever,_

_JANOS MCCOY_

“With the officers!” cried Emma, “I wonder my aunt did not tell us of  _that_.”

“Dining out,” said Mrs. Xavier, “That is very unlucky.”

“Can I have the carriage?” said Raven.

“No, my dear, you had better go on horseback, because it seems likely to rain; and then you must stay all night.”

“That would be a good scheme,” said Charles, “If you were sure that they would not offer to send her home.”

“Oh! But the gentlemen will have Mr. McCoy's chaise to go to Meryton, and the Muñozes have no horses to theirs.”

“I had much rather go in the coach.”

“But, my dear, your father cannot spare the horses, I am sure. They are wanted in the farm, Mr. Xavier, are they not?”

“They are wanted in the farm much oftener than I can get them.”

“But if you have got them to-day,” said Charles, “My mother's purpose will be answered.”

She did at last extort from her father an acknowledgment that the horses were engaged. Raven was therefore obliged to go on horseback, and her mother attended her to the door with many cheerful prognostics of a bad day. Her hopes were answered; Raven had not been gone long before it rained hard. Her siblings were uneasy for her, but her mother was delighted. The rain continued the whole evening without intermission; Raven certainly could not come back.

“This was a lucky idea of mine, indeed!” said Mrs. Xavier more than once, as if the credit of making it rain were all her own. Till the next morning, however, she was not aware of all the felicity of her contrivance. Breakfast was scarcely over when a servant from Netherfield brought the following note for Charles:

_MY DEAREST CHARLIE,—_

_I find myself very unwell this morning, which, I suppose, is to be imputed to my getting wet through yesterday. My kind friends will not hear of my returning till I am better. They insist also on my seeing Mr. Jones—therefore do not be alarmed if you should hear of his having been to me—and, excepting a sore throat and headache, there is not much the matter with me._

_—Yours, etc."_

“Well, my dear,” said Mr. Xavier, when Charles had read the note aloud, “If your daughter should have a dangerous fit of illness—if she should die, it would be a comfort to know that it was all in pursuit of Mr. McCoy, and under your orders.”

“Oh! I am not afraid of her dying. People do not die of little trifling colds. She will be taken good care of. As long as she stays there, it is all very well. I would go and see her if I could have the carriage.”

Charles, feeling really anxious, was determined to go to her, though the carriage was not to be had; and as he was no horseman, walking was his only alternative. He declared his resolution.

“How can you be so silly,” cried his mother, “As to think of such a thing, in all this dirt! You will not be fit to be seen when you get there.”

“I shall be very fit to see Jane—which is all I want.”

“Is this a hint to me, Charles,” said his father, “To send for the horses?”

“No, indeed, I do not wish to avoid the walk. The distance is nothing when one has a motive; only three miles. I shall be back by dinner.”

“I admire the activity of your benevolence,” observed Azazel, “But every impulse of feeling should be guided by reason; and, in my opinion, exertion should always be in proportion to what is required.”

“We will go as far as Meryton with you,” said Angel and Emma. Charles accepted their company, and the three young Xaviers set off together.

“If we make haste,” said Emma, as they walked along, “Perhaps we may see something of Captain Carter before he goes.”

In Meryton they parted; the two youngest repaired to the lodgings of one of the officers' wives, and Charles continued his walk alone, crossing field after field at a quick pace, jumping over stiles and springing over puddles with impatient activity, and finding himself at last within view of the house, with weary ankles, dirty socks, and a face glowing with the warmth of exercise.

He was shown into the breakfast-parlour, where all but Raven were assembled, and where his appearance created a great deal of surprise. That he should have walked three miles so early in the day, in such dirty weather, and by himself, was almost incredible to Mr. Muñoz and Mr. Janos; and Charles was convinced that they held him in contempt for it. He was received, however, very politely by them; and in their brother's manners there was something better than politeness; there was good humour and kindness. Mr. Lensherr said very little, and Mrs. Muñoz nothing at all. The former was divided between admiration of the brilliancy which exercise had given to his complexion, and doubt as to the occasion's justifying his coming so far alone. The latter was thinking only of her breakfast.

His inquiries after his sister were not very favourably answered. Miss Xavier had slept ill, and though up, was very feverish, and not well enough to leave her room. Charles was glad to be taken to her immediately; and Raven, who had only been withheld by the fear of giving alarm or inconvenience from expressing in her note how much she longed for such a visit, was delighted at his entrance. She was not equal, however, to much conversation, and when Mr. Janos left them together, could attempt little besides expressions of gratitude for the extraordinary kindness she was treated with. Charles silently attended her.

When breakfast was over they were joined by the brothers; and Charles began to like them herself, when he saw how much affection and solicitude they showed for Raven. The apothecary came, and having examined his patient, said, as might be supposed, that she had caught a violent cold, and that they must endeavour to get the better of it; advised her to return to bed, and promised her some draughts. The advice was followed readily, for the feverish symptoms increased, and her head ached acutely. Charles did not quit her room for a moment; nor were the other gentlemen often absent; the eldest gentlemen being out, they had, in fact, nothing to do elsewhere.

When the clock struck three, Charles felt that she must go, and very unwillingly said so. Mr. Janos offered her the carriage, and he only wanted a little pressing to accept it, when Raven testified such concern in parting with her, that Mr. Janos was obliged to convert the offer of the chaise to an invitation to remain at Netherfield for the present. Charles most thankfully consented, and a servant was dispatched to Longbourn to acquaint the family with her stay and bring back a supply of clothes.

 

* * *

 

**Chapter 8**

At five o'clock the two gentlemen retired to dress, and at half-past six Charles was summoned to dinner. To the civil inquiries which then poured in, and amongst which he had the pleasure of distinguishing the much superior solicitude of Mr. McCoy's, she could not make a very favourable answer. Raven was by no means better. The brothers, on hearing this, repeated three or four times how much they were grieved, how shocking it was to have a bad cold, and how excessively they disliked being ill themselves; and then thought no more of the matter: and their indifference towards Raven when not immediately before them restored Charles to the enjoyment of all her former dislike.

Their brother, indeed, was the only one of the party whom she could regard with any complacency. His anxiety for Raven was evident, and his attentions to Charles himself most pleasing, and they prevented him feeling herself so much an intruder as he believed he was considered by the others. He had very little notice from any but him. Mr. Janos was engrossed by Mr Lensherr, his other brother scarcely less so; and as for Mrs. Muñoz, by whom Charles sat, she was an indolent woman, who lived only to eat, drink, and play at cards; who, when she found him to prefer a plain dish to a ragout, had nothing to say to him.

When dinner was over, he returned directly to Raven, and Mr. Janos began abusing him as soon as he was out of the room. His manners were pronounced to be very bad indeed, a mixture of pride and impertinence; he had no conversation, no style, no beauty. Mr. Muñoz thought the same, and added:

“He has nothing, in short, to recommend him, but being an excellent walker. I shall never forget his appearance this morning. He really looked almost wild. Like he had wandered in to one of your whirlwinds, Janos.” Like their elder brother, both Janos and Armando had powers, and like their elder brother, took great pains to keep them hidden, else their reputations would be in tatters. Janos was capable of creating great whirlwinds from his hands and body, while Armando was able to evolve himself to react to his surroundings.

“He did, indeed, Armando. I could hardly keep my countenance. Very nonsensical to come at all! Why must  _he_  be scampering about the country, because his sister had a cold? His hair, so untidy, so blowsy!”

“Yes, and his socks; I hope you saw his socks, six inches deep in mud, I am absolutely certain; and the trousers which had been let down to hide it not doing its office.”

“Your picture may be very exact, Armando,” said McCoy, “But this was all lost upon me. I thought Mr. Charles Xavier looked remarkably well when he came into the room this morning. His dirty socks quite escaped my notice.”

“ _You_  observed it, Mr. Lensherr, I am sure," said Mr. Janos, “And I am inclined to think that you would not wish to see  _your_  sister make such an exhibition.”

“Certainly not.”

“To walk three miles, or four miles, or five miles, or whatever it is, above his ankles in dirt, and alone, quite alone! What could he mean by it? It seems to me to show an abominable sort of conceited independence, a most country-town indifference to decorum.”

“It shows an affection for her sister that is very pleasing,” said Bingley.

“I am afraid, Mr. Lensherr,” observed Mr. Janos in a half whisper, “That this adventure has rather affected your admiration of her fine eyes.”

“Not at all,” He replied, “They were brightened by the exercise.” A short pause followed this speech, and Mrs. Muñoz began again:

“I have an excessive regard for Miss Raven Xavier, she is really a very sweet girl, and I wish with all my heart she were well settled. But with such a father and mother, and such low connections, I am afraid there is no chance of it.”

“I think I have heard you say that their uncle is an attorney in Meryton.”

“Yes; and they have another, who lives somewhere near Cheapside.”

“That is capital,” added her sister, and they both laughed heartily.

“If they had uncles enough to fill  _all_  Cheapside,” cried McCoy, “It would not make them one jot less agreeable.”

“But it must very materially lessen their chance of marrying men of any consideration in the world,” replied Lensherr.

To this speech McCoy made no answer; but his brothers gave it their hearty assent, and indulged their mirth for some time at the expense of their dear friend's vulgar relations.

With a renewal of tenderness, however, they returned to her room on leaving the dining-parlour, and sat with her till summoned to coffee. She was still very poorly, and Charles would not quit her at all, till late in the evening, when he had the comfort of seeing her sleep, and when it seemed to him rather right than pleasant that he should go downstairs herself. On entering the drawing-room he found the whole party at loo, and was immediately invited to join them; but suspecting them to be playing high he declined it, and making his sister the excuse, said he would amuse himself for the short time he could stay below, with a book. Mrs. Muñoz looked at her with astonishment.

“Do you prefer reading to cards?” said she, “That is rather singular.”

“Mr. Charles Xavier,” said Mr. Janos, “Despises cards. She is a great reader, and has no pleasure in anything else."

“I deserve neither such praise nor such censure,” cried Charles, “I am  _not_  a great reader, and I have pleasure in many things.”

“In nursing your sister I am sure you have pleasure,” said McCoy, “And I hope it will be soon increased by seeing her quite well.”

Charles thanked him from her heart, and then walked towards the table where a few books were lying. McCoy immediately offered to fetch him others—all that his library afforded.

“And I wish my collection were larger for your benefit and my own credit; but I am an idle fellow, and though I have not many, I have more than I ever looked into.”

Elizabeth assured him that she could suit herself perfectly with those in the room.

“I am astonished,” said Mr. Janos, “That my father should have left so small a collection of books. What a delightful library you have at Pemberley, Mr. Darcy!”

“It ought to be good,” he replied, “It has been the work of many generations.”

“And then you have added so much to it yourself, you are always buying books.”

“I cannot comprehend the neglect of a family library in such days as these.”

“Neglect! I am sure you neglect nothing that can add to the beauties of that noble place. Hank, when you build  _your_  house, I wish it may be half as delightful as Pemberley.”

“I wish it may.”

“But I would really advise you to make your purchase in that neighbourhood, and take Pemberley for a kind of model. There is not a finer county in England than Derbyshire.”

“With all my heart; I will buy Pemberley itself if Lensherr will sell it.”

“I am talking of possibilities, Hank.”

“Upon my word, Janos, I should think it more possible to get Pemberley by purchase than by imitation.”

Charles was so much caught with what passed, as to leave him very little attention for his book; and soon laying it wholly aside, he drew near the card-table, and stationed himself between Mr. McCoy and his eldest brother, to observe the game.

“Is Miss Lensherr much grown since the spring?” said Mr. Janos, “Will she be as tall as I am?”

“I think she will. She is now about Mr. Charles Xavier's height, or rather taller.”

“How I long to see her again! I never met with anybody who delighted me so much. Such a countenance, such manners! And so extremely accomplished for her age! Her performance on the pianoforte is exquisite.”

“It is amazing to me,” said McCoy, “How young people can have patience to be so very accomplished as they all are.”

“All young people accomplished! My dear Hank, what do you mean?”

“Yes, all of them, I think. They all paint tables, cover screens, and net purses. I scarcely know anyone who cannot do all this, and I am sure I never heard a young lady or gentleman spoken of for the first time, without being informed that she or he was very accomplished.”

“Your list of the common extent of accomplishments,” said Lensherr, “Has too much truth. The word is applied to many a person who deserves it no otherwise than by netting a purse or covering a screen. But I am very far from agreeing with you in your estimation of people in general. I cannot boast of knowing more than half-a-dozen, in the whole range of my acquaintance, that are really accomplished.”

“Nor I, I am sure,” said Mr. Janos.

“Then,” observed Charles, “You must comprehend a great deal in your idea of an accomplished person.”

“Yes, I do comprehend a great deal in it.”

“Oh! Certainly,” cried his faithful assistant, “No one can be really esteemed accomplished who does not greatly surpass what is usually met with. A person must have a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing, dancing, and the modern languages, to deserve the word; and besides all this, they must possess a certain something in her air and manner of walking, the tone of their voice, their address and expressions, or the word will be but half-deserved.”

“All this they must possess,” added Lensherr, “And to all this they must yet add something more substantial, in the improvement of their mind by extensive reading.”

“I am no longer surprised at your knowing  _only_  six accomplished people. I rather wonder now at your knowing  _any_.”

“Are you so severe upon your own species as to doubt the possibility of all this?”

“I never saw such a person. I never saw such capacity, and taste, and application, and elegance, as you describe united.”

Mr. Muñoz and Mr. Janos both cried out against the injustice of his implied doubt, and were both protesting that they knew many people who answered this description, when Mrs. Muñoz called them to order, with bitter complaints of their inattention to what was going forward. As all conversation was thereby at an end, Charles soon afterwards left the room.

“Charles Xavier," said Mr. Janos, when the door was closed on him, “Is one of those young gentlemen who seek to recommend themselves to others by undervaluing their own; and with many people, I dare say, it succeeds. But, in my opinion, it is a paltry device, a very mean art.”

“Undoubtedly,” replied Lensherr, to whom this remark was chiefly addressed, “There is a meanness in  _all_  the arts which people sometimes condescend to employ for captivation. Whatever bears affinity to cunning is despicable.”

Mr. Janos was not so entirely satisfied with this reply as to continue the subject.

Charles joined them again only to say that his sister was worse, and that he could not leave her. McCoy urged Mr. Jones being sent for immediately; while his brothers, convinced that no country advice could be of any service, recommended an express to town for one of the most eminent physicians. This Charles would not hear of; but he was not so unwilling to comply with their brother's proposal; and it was settled that Mr. Jones should be sent for early in the morning, if Miss Xavier were not decidedly better. McCoy was quite uncomfortable; his brothers declared that they were miserable. They solaced their wretchedness, however, by duets after supper, while he could find no better relief to his feelings than by giving his housekeeper directions that every attention might be paid to the sick lady and her brother.

 

* * *

 

**Chapter 9**

Charles passed the chief of the night in his sister's room, and in the morning had the pleasure of being able to send a tolerable answer to the inquiries which he very early received from Mr. McCoy by a housemaid, and some time afterwards from the two elegant ladies who waited on his brothers. In spite of this amendment, however, she requested to have a note sent to Longbourn, desiring her mother to visit Raven, and form her own judgement of her situation. The note was immediately dispatched, and its contents as quickly complied with. Mrs. Xavier, accompanied by her two youngest girls, reached Netherfield soon after the family breakfast.

Had she found Raven in any apparent danger, Mrs. Xavier would have been very miserable; but being satisfied on seeing her that her illness was not alarming, she had no wish of her recovering immediately, as her restoration to health would probably remove her from Netherfield. She would not listen, therefore, to her son's proposal of being carried home; neither did the apothecary, who arrived about the same time, think it at all advisable. After sitting a little while with Raven, on Miss McCoy's appearance and invitation, the mother and three children all attended her into the breakfast parlour. McCoy met them with hopes that Mrs. Xavier had not found Miss Xavier worse than she expected.

“Indeed I have, sir,” was her answer. “She is a great deal too ill to be moved. Mr. Jones says we must not think of moving her. We must trespass a little longer on your kindness.”

“Removed!” cried McCoy. “It must not be thought of. My brother, I am sure, will not hear of her removal.”

“You may depend upon it, Madam," said Mr. Janos, with cold civility, “That Miss Xavier will receive every possible attention while she remains with us.”

Mrs. Xavier was profuse in her acknowledgments.

“I am sure,” She added, “If it was not for such good friends I do not know what would become of her, for she is very ill indeed, and suffers a vast deal, though with the greatest patience in the world, which is always the way with her, for she has, without exception, the sweetest temper I have ever met with. I often tell my other children they are nothing to  _her_. You have a sweet room here, Mr. McCoy, and a charming prospect over the gravel walk. I do not know a place in the country that is equal to Netherfield. You will not think of quitting it in a hurry, I hope, though you have but a short lease.”

“Whatever I do is done in a hurry,” replied he, “And therefore if I should resolve to quit Netherfield, I should probably be off in five minutes. At present, however, I consider myself as quite fixed here.”

“That is exactly what I should have supposed of you,” said Charles.

“You begin to comprehend me, do you?” cried he, turning towards him.

“Oh! Yes—I understand you perfectly.”

“I wish I might take this for a compliment; but to be so easily seen through I am afraid is pitiful.”

“That is as it happens. It does not follow that a deep, intricate character is more or less estimable than such a one as yours.”

“Charlie,” cried her mother, “Remember where you are, and do not run on in the wild manner that you are suffered to do at home.”

“I did not know before,” continued McCoy immediately, “That you were a studier of character. It must be an amusing study.”

“Yes, but intricate characters are the  _most_  amusing. They have at least that advantage.”

“The country,” said McCoy, “Can in general supply but a few subjects for such a study. In a country neighbourhood you move in a very confined and unvarying society.”

“But people themselves alter so much, that there is something new to be observed in them for ever.”

“Yes, indeed,” cried Mrs. Xavier, offended by his manner of mentioning a country neighbourhood. “I assure you there is quite as much of  _that_  going on in the country as in town.”

Everybody was surprised, and Darcy, after looking at her for a moment, turned silently away. Mrs. Xavier, who fancied she had gained a complete victory over him, continued her triumph.

“I cannot see that London has any great advantage over the country, for my part, except the shops and public places. The country is a vast deal pleasanter, is it not, Mr. Bingley?”

“When I am in the country,” He replied, “I never wish to leave it; and when I am in town it is pretty much the same. They have each their advantages, and I can be equally happy in either.”

“Aye—that is because you have the right disposition. But that gentleman,” looking at Lensherr, “Seemed to think the country was nothing at all.”

“Indeed, Mamma, you are mistaken,” said Charles, blushing for his mother. “You quite mistook Mr. Lensherr. He only meant that there was not such a variety of people to be met with in the country as in the town, which you must acknowledge to be true.”

“Certainly, my dear, nobody said there were; but as to not meeting with many people in this neighbourhood, I believe there are few neighbourhoods larger. I know we dine with four-and-twenty families.”

Nothing but concern for Charles could enable McCoy to keep his countenance. His brother was less delicate, and directed her eyes towards Mr. Lensherr with a very expressive smile. Charles, for the sake of saying something that might turn her mother's thoughts, now asked her if Alex Summers had been at Longbourn since  _her_  coming away.

“Yes, he called yesterday with his father. What an agreeable man Sir Christopher is, Mr. McCoy, is not he? So much the man of fashion! So genteel and easy! He has always something to say to everybody.  _That_  is my idea of good breeding; and those persons who fancy themselves very important, and never open their mouths, quite mistake the matter.”

“Did Alex dine with you?”

“No, he would go home. I fancy he was wanted about the mince-pies. For my part, Mr. McCoy, I always keep servants that can do their own work;  _my_  children are brought up very differently. But everybody is to judge for themselves, and the Summerses are a very good sort of children, I assure you. It is a pity they are not handsome! Not that I think Alex so  _very_  plain—but then she is our particular friend.”

“He seems a very pleasant young man.”

“Oh! Dear, yes; but you must own she is very plain. Lady Summers herself has often said so, and envied me Raven's beauty. I do not like to boast of my own child, but to be sure, Raven—one does not often see anybody better looking. It is what everybody says. I do not trust my own partiality. When she was only fifteen, there was a man at my brother Howlett's in town so much in love with her that my brother-in-law was sure he would make her an offer before we came away. But, however, he did not. Perhaps he thought her too young. However, he wrote some verses on her, and very pretty they were.”

“And so ended his affection,” said Charles impatiently. “There has been many a one, I fancy, overcome in the same way. I wonder who first discovered the efficacy of poetry in driving away love!”

“I have been used to consider poetry as the  _food_  of love,” said Lenserr.

“Of a fine, stout, healthy love it may. Everything nourishes what is strong already. But if it be only a slight, thin sort of inclination, I am convinced that one good sonnet will starve it entirely away.”

Lensherr only smiled; and the general pause which ensued made Charles tremble lest his mother should be exposing herself again. He longed to speak, but could think of nothing to say; and after a short silence Mrs. Xavier began repeating her thanks to Mr. McCoy for his kindness to Raven, with an apology for troubling him also with Charlie. Mr. McCoy was unaffectedly civil in his answer, and forced his younger brother to be civil also, and say what the occasion required. He performed his part indeed without much graciousness, but Mrs. Xavier was satisfied, and soon afterwards ordered her carriage. Upon this signal, the youngest of her daughters put herself forward. The two girls had been whispering to each other during the whole visit, and the result of it was, that the youngest should tax Mr. McCoy with having promised on his first coming into the country to give a ball at Netherfield.

Emma was a stout, well-grown girl of fifteen, with a fine complexion and good-humoured countenance; a favourite with her mother, whose affection had brought her into public at an early age. She had high animal spirits, and a sort of natural self-consequence, which the attention of the officers, to whom her uncle's good dinners, and her own easy manners recommended her, had increased into assurance. She was very equal, therefore, to address Mr. McCoy on the subject of the ball, and abruptly reminded him of his promise; adding, that it would be the most shameful thing in the world if he did not keep it. His answer to this sudden attack was delightful to their mother's ear:

“I am perfectly ready, I assure you, to keep my engagement; and when your sister is recovered, you shall, if you please, name the very day of the ball. But you would not wish to be dancing when she is ill.”

Emma declared herself satisfied. “Oh! Yes—it would be much better to wait till Jane was well, and by that time most likely Captain Carter would be at Meryton again. And when you have given  _your_  ball,” She added, “I shall insist on their giving one also. I shall tell Colonel Rasputin it will be quite a shame if he does not.”

Mrs. Xavier and her daughters then departed, and Charles returned instantly to Raven, leaving his own and his relations' behaviour to the remarks of the two gentlemen and Mr. Lensherr; the latter of whom, however, could not be prevailed on to join in their censure of _him_ , in spite of all Mr. Janos' witticisms on  _fine eyes_.


	4. Volume I: Chapters 10 - 12

**Chapter 10**

The day passed much as the day before had done. Mr. Muñoz and Mr. Janos had spent some hours of the morning with the invalid, who continued, though slowly, to mend; and in the evening Charles joined their party in the drawing-room. The loo-table, however, did not appear. Mr. Lensherr was writing, and Mr. Janos, seated near him, was watching the progress of his letter and repeatedly calling off his attention by messages to his sister. Mr. Muñoz and Mr. McCoy were at piquet, and Mrs. Muñoz was observing their game.

Charles took up some needlework, and was sufficiently amused in attending to what passed between Lensherr and his companion. The perpetual commendations of the gentlemen, either on his handwriting, or on the evenness of his lines, or on the length of his letter, with the perfect unconcern with which her praises were received, formed a curious dialogue, and was exactly in union with his opinion of each.

“How delighted Miss Lensherr will be to receive such a letter!”

He made no answer.

“You write uncommonly fast.”

“You are mistaken. I write rather slowly.”

“How many letters you must have occasion to write in the course of a year! Letters of business, too! How odious I should think them!”

“It is fortunate, then, that they fall to my lot instead of yours.”

“Pray tell your sister that I long to see her.”

“I have already told her so once, by your desire.”

“I am afraid you do not like your pen. Let me mend it for you. I mend pens remarkably well.”

“Thank you—but I always mend my own.”

“How can you contrive to write so even?”

He was silent.

“Tell your sister I am delighted to hear of her improvement on the harp; and pray let her know that I am quite in raptures with her beautiful little design for a table, and I think it infinitely superior to Miss Grantley's.”

“Will you give me leave to defer your raptures till I write again? At present I have not room to do them justice.”

“Oh! It is of no consequence. I shall see her in January. But do you always write such charming long letters to her, Mr. Lensherr?”

“They are generally long; but whether always charming it is not for me to determine.”

“It is a rule with me, that a person who can write a long letter with ease, cannot write ill.”

“That will not do for a compliment to Lensherr, Janos," cried her brother, “Because he does  _not_  write with ease. He studies too much for words of four syllables. Do not you, Lensherr?”

“My style of writing is very different from yours.”

“Oh!” cried Mr. Janos, “Hank writes in the most careless way imaginable. He leaves out half his words, and blots the rest.”

“My ideas flow so rapidly that I have not time to express them—by which means my letters sometimes convey no ideas at all to my correspondents.”

“Your humility, Mr. McCoy,” said Charles, “Must disarm reproof.”

“Nothing is more deceitful,” said Lensherr, “Than the appearance of humility. It is often only carelessness of opinion, and sometimes an indirect boast.”

“And which of the two do you call  _my_  little recent piece of modesty?”

“The indirect boast; for you are really proud of your defects in writing, because you consider them as proceeding from a rapidity of thought and carelessness of execution, which, if not estimable, you think at least highly interesting. The power of doing anything with quickness is always prized much by the possessor, and often without any attention to the imperfection of the performance. When you told Mrs. Xavier this morning that if you ever resolved upon quitting Netherfield you should be gone in five minutes, you meant it to be a sort of panegyric, of compliment to yourself—and yet what is there so very laudable in a precipitance which must leave very necessary business undone, and can be of no real advantage to yourself or anyone else?”

“Nay,” cried McCoy, “This is too much, to remember at night all the foolish things that were said in the morning. And yet, upon my honour, I believe what I said of myself to be true, and I believe it at this moment. At least, therefore, I did not assume the character of needless precipitance merely to show off before the ladies.”

“I dare say you believed it; but I am by no means convinced that you would be gone with such celerity. Your conduct would be quite as dependent on chance as that of any man I know; and if, as you were mounting your horse, a friend were to say, ‘McCoy, you had better stay till next week’, you would probably do it, you would probably not go—and at another word, might stay a month.”

“You have only proved by this,” cried McCoy, “That Mr. McCoy did not do justice to his own disposition. You have shown him off now much more than he did himself.”

“I am exceedingly gratified,” said McCoy, “By your converting what my friend says into a compliment on the sweetness of my temper. But I am afraid you are giving it a turn which that gentleman did by no means intend; for he would certainly think better of me, if under such a circumstance I were to give a flat denial, and ride off as fast as I could.”

“Would Mr. Lensherr then consider the rashness of your original intentions as atoned for by your obstinacy in adhering to it?”

“Upon my word, I cannot exactly explain the matter; Lensherr must speak for himself.”

“You expect me to account for opinions which you choose to call mine, but which I have never acknowledged. Allowing the case, however, to stand according to your representation, you must remember, Mr. Xavier, that the friend who is supposed to desire his return to the house, and the delay of his plan, has merely desired it, asked it without offering one argument in favour of its propriety.”

“To yield readily—easily—to the  _persuasion_  of a friend is no merit with you.”

“To yield without conviction is no compliment to the understanding of either.”

“You appear to me, Mr. Lensherr, to allow nothing for the influence of friendship and affection. A regard for the requester would often make one readily yield to a request, without waiting for arguments to reason one into it. I am not particularly speaking of such a case as you have supposed about Mr. McCoy. We may as well wait, perhaps, till the circumstance occurs before we discuss the discretion of his behaviour thereupon. But in general and ordinary cases between friend and friend, where one of them is desired by the other to change a resolution of no very great moment, should you think ill of that person for complying with the desire, without waiting to be argued into it?”

“Will it not be advisable, before we proceed on this subject, to arrange with rather more precision the degree of importance which is to appertain to this request, as well as the degree of intimacy subsisting between the parties?”

“By all means,” cried McCoy, “Let us hear all the particulars, not forgetting their comparative height and size; for that will have more weight in the argument, Mr. Xavier, than you may be aware of. I assure you, that if Lensherr were not such a great tall fellow, in comparison with myself, I should not pay him half so much deference. I declare I do not know a more awful object than Lensherr, on particular occasions, and in particular places; at his own house especially, and of a Sunday evening, when he has nothing to do.”

Mr. Lensherr smiled; but Charles thought she could perceive that he was rather offended, and therefore checked his laugh. Mr. Janos warmly resented the indignity he had received, in an expostulation with his brother for talking such nonsense.

“I see your design, McCoy,” said his friend. “You dislike an argument, and want to silence this.”

“Perhaps I do. Arguments are too much like disputes. If you and Mr. Xavier will defer yours till I am out of the room, I shall be very thankful; and then you may say whatever you like of me.”

“What you ask,” said Charles, “Is no sacrifice on my side; and Mr. Lensherr had much better finish his letter.”

Mr. Lensherr took her advice, and did finish his letter.

When that business was over, he applied to Mr. Janos and Charles for an indulgence of some music. Mr. Janos moved with some alacrity to the pianoforte; and, after a polite request that Charles would lead the way which the other as politely and more earnestly negatived, he seated himself.

Mr. Muñoz sang with his brother, and while they were thus employed, Charles could not help observing, as he turned over some music-books that lay on the instrument, how frequently Mr. Lensherr's eyes were fixed on him. He hardly knew how to suppose that he could be an object of admiration to so great a man; and yet that he should look at him because he disliked him, was still more strange. She could only imagine, however, at last that she drew his notice because there was something more wrong and reprehensible, according to his ideas of right, than in any other person present. The supposition did not pain her. He liked him too little to care for his approbation.

After playing some Italian songs, Mr. Janos varied the charm by a lively Scotch air; and soon afterwards Mr. Lensherr, drawing near Charles, said to her:

“Do not you feel a great inclination, Miss Bennet, to seize such an opportunity of dancing a reel?”

She smiled, but made no answer. He repeated the question, with some surprise at her silence.

“Oh!” said He, “I heard you before, but I could not immediately determine what to say in reply. You wanted me, I know, to say ‘Yes’, that you might have the pleasure of despising my taste; but I always delight in overthrowing those kind of schemes, and cheating a person of their premeditated contempt. I have, therefore, made up my mind to tell you, that I do not want to dance a reel at all—and now despise me if you dare.”

“Indeed I do not dare.”

Charles, having rather expected to affront him, was amazed at his gallantry; but there was a mixture of sweetness and archness in his manner which made it difficult for him to affront anybody; and Lensherr had never been so bewitched by any man as he was by him. He really believed, that were it not for the inferiority of her connections, he should be in some danger.

Mr. Janos saw, or suspected enough to be jealous; and his great anxiety for the recovery of his dear friend Raven received some assistance from his desire of getting rid of Charles.

He often tried to provoke Darcy into disliking his guest, by talking of their supposed marriage, and planning his happiness in such an alliance.

“I hope,” said she, as they were walking together in the shrubbery the next day, “You will give your mother-in-law a few hints, when this desirable event takes place, as to the advantage of holding her tongue; and if you can compass it, do cure the younger girls of running after officers. And, if I may mention so delicate a subject, endeavour to check that little something, bordering on conceit and impertinence, which your lady possesses.”

“Have you anything else to propose for my domestic felicity?”

“Oh! Yes. Do let the portraits of your uncle and aunt Munroes be placed in the gallery at Pemberley. Put them next to your great-uncle the judge. They are in the same profession, you know, only in different lines. As for your Charles' picture, you must not have it taken, for what painter could do justice to those beautiful eyes?”

“It would not be easy, indeed, to catch their expression, but their colour and shape, and the eyelashes, so remarkably fine, might be copied.”

At that moment they were met from another walk by Mr. Muñoz and Charles himself.

“I did not know that you intended to walk,” said Mr. Janos, in some confusion, lest they had been overheard.

“You used us abominably ill,” answered Mr. Muñoz, “Running away without telling us that you were coming out.”

Then taking the disengaged arm of Mr. Lensherr, he left Charles to walk by himself. The path just admitted three. Mr. Lensherr felt their rudeness, and immediately said:

“This walk is not wide enough for our party. We had better go into the avenue.”

But Charles, who had not the least inclination to remain with them, laughingly answered:

“No, no; stay where you are. You are charmingly grouped, and appear to uncommon advantage. The picturesque would be spoilt by admitting a fourth. Good-bye.”

He then ran gaily off, rejoicing as he rambled about, in the hope of being at home again in a day or two. Raven was already so much recovered as to intend leaving her room for a couple of hours that evening.

 

* * *

 

**Chapter 11**

When the gentlemen removed after dinner, Charles ran up to her sister, and seeing her well guarded from cold, attended her into the drawing-room, where she was welcomed by her two friends with many professions of pleasure; and Charles had never seen them so agreeable as they were during the hour which passed before the elder gentlemen appeared. Their powers of conversation were considerable. They could describe an entertainment with accuracy, relate an anecdote with humour, and laugh at their acquaintance with spirit.

But when the elder gentlemen entered, Raven was no longer the first object; Mr. Janos' eyes were instantly turned toward Lensherr, and he had something to say to him before he had advanced many steps. He addressed himself to Miss Xavier, with a polite congratulation; Mr. Muñoz also made her a slight bow, and said he was “very glad”; but diffuseness and warmth remained for McCoy's salutation. He was full of joy and attention. The first half-hour was spent in piling up the fire, lest she should suffer from the change of room; and she removed at his desire to the other side of the fireplace, that she might be further from the door. He then sat down by her, and talked scarcely to anyone else. Charles, at work in the opposite corner, saw it all with great delight.

When tea was over, Mrs. Muñoz reminded his brother-in-law of the card-table—but in vain. He had obtained private intelligence that Mr. Lensherr did not wish for cards; and Mrs. Muñoz soon found even her open petition rejected. He assured her that no one intended to play, and the silence of the whole party on the subject seemed to justify him. Mrs. Muñoz had therefore nothing to do, but to stretch herself on one of the sofas and go to sleep. Lensherr took up a book; Mr. Janos did the same; and Mr. Muñoz, principally occupied in playing with his bracelets and rings, joined now and then in his brother's conversation with Miss Xavier.

Mr. Janos' attention was quite as much engaged in watching Mr. Lensherr's progress through  _his_  book, as in reading his own; and he was perpetually either making some inquiry, or looking at his page. He could not win him, however, to any conversation; he merely answered his question, and read on. At length, quite exhausted by the attempt to be amused with his own book, which he had only chosen because it was the second volume of his, he gave a great yawn and said, “How pleasant it is to spend an evening in this way! I declare after all there is no enjoyment like reading! How much sooner one tires of anything than of a book! When I have a house of my own, I shall be miserable if I have not an excellent library.”

No one made any reply. He then yawned again, threw aside his book, and cast his eyes round the room in quest for some amusement; when hearing her brother mentioning a ball to Miss Xavier, she turned suddenly towards him and said:

“By the bye, Hank, are you really serious in meditating a dance at Netherfield? I would advise you, before you determine on it, to consult the wishes of the present party; I am much mistaken if there are not some among us to whom a ball would be rather a punishment than a pleasure.”

“If you mean Lensherr,” cried his brother, “He may go to bed, if he chooses, before it begins—but as for the ball, it is quite a settled thing; and as soon as Nicholls has made white soup enough, I shall send round my cards.”

“I should like balls infinitely better,” She replied, “If they were carried on in a different manner; but there is something insufferably tedious in the usual process of such a meeting. It would surely be much more rational if conversation instead of dancing were made the order of the day.”

“Much more rational, my dear Janos, I dare say, but it would not be near so much like a ball.”

Mr. Janos made no answer, and soon afterwards he got up and walked about the room. His figure was elegant, and he walked well; but Lensherr, at whom it was all aimed, was still inflexibly studious. In the desperation of his feelings, he resolved on one effort more, and, turning to Charles, said:

“Mr. Charles Xavier, let me persuade you to follow my example, and take a turn about the room. I assure you it is very refreshing after sitting so long in one attitude.”

Charles was surprised, but agreed to it immediately. Mr. Janos succeeded no less in the real object of her civility; Mr. Lensherr looked up. He was as much awake to the novelty of attention in that quarter as Charles himself could be, and unconsciously closed his book. He was directly invited to join their party, but he declined it, observing that he could imagine but two motives for their choosing to walk up and down the room together, with either of which motives his joining them would interfere. What could he mean? He was dying to know what could be his meaning?—and asked Charles whether he could at all understand him?

“Not at all,” was his answer; “But depend upon it, he means to be severe on us, and our surest way of disappointing him will be to ask nothing about it.”

Mr. Janos, however, was incapable of disappointing Mr. Lensherr in anything, and persevered therefore in requiring an explanation of his two motives.

“I have not the smallest objection to explaining them,” said he, as soon as he allowed him to speak. “You either choose this method of passing the evening because you are in each other's confidence, and have secret affairs to discuss, or because you are conscious that your figures appear to the greatest advantage in walking; if the first, I would be completely in your way, and if the second, I can admire you much better as I sit by the fire.”

“Oh! Shocking!” cried Mr. Janos. “I never heard anything so abominable. How shall we punish him for such a speech?”

“Nothing so easy, if you have but the inclination,” said Charles. “We can all plague and punish one another. Tease him—laugh at him. Intimate as you are, you must know how it is to be done.”

“But upon my honour, I do  _not_. I do assure you that my intimacy has not yet taught me  _that_. Tease calmness of manner and presence of mind! No, no; I feel he may defy us there. And as to laughter, we will not expose ourselves, if you please, by attempting to laugh without a subject. Mr. Lensherr may hug himself.”

“Mr. Lensherr is not to be laughed at!” cried Charles. “That is an uncommon advantage, and uncommon I hope it will continue, for it would be a great loss to  _me_  to have many such acquaintances. I dearly love a laugh.”

“Mr. Janos,” said he, “Has given me more credit than can be. The wisest and the best of men—nay, the wisest and best of their actions—may be rendered ridiculous by a person whose first object in life is a joke.”

“Certainly,” replied Charles—“There are such people, but I hope I am not one of  _them_. I hope I never ridicule what is wise and good. Follies and nonsense, whims and inconsistencies,  _do_  divert me, I own, and I laugh at them whenever I can. But these, I suppose, are precisely what you are without.”

“Perhaps that is not possible for anyone. But it has been the study of my life to avoid those weaknesses which often expose a strong understanding to ridicule.”

“Such as vanity and pride.”

“Yes, vanity is a weakness indeed. But pride—where there is a real superiority of mind, pride will be always under good regulation.”

Charles turned away to hide a smile.

“Your examination of Mr. Lensherr is over, I presume," said Mr. Janos; “And pray what is the result?”

“I am perfectly convinced by it that Mr. Lensherr has no defect. He owns it himself without disguise.”

“No,” said Lensherr, “I have made no such pretension. I have faults enough, but they are not, I hope, of understanding. My temper I dare not vouch for. It is, I believe, too little yielding—certainly too little for the convenience of the world. I cannot forget the follies and vices of others so soon as I ought, nor their offenses against myself. My feelings are not puffed about with every attempt to move them. My temper would perhaps be called resentful. My good opinion once lost, is lost forever.”

“ _That_  is a failing indeed!” cried Charles. “Implacable resentment  _is_  a shade in a character. But you have chosen your fault well. I really cannot  _laugh_  at it. You are safe from me.”

“There is, I believe, in every disposition a tendency to some particular evil—a natural defect, which not even the best education can overcome.”

“And  _your_  defect is to hate everybody.”

“And yours,” he replied with a smile, “Is willfully to misunderstand them.”

“Do let us have a little music,” cried Mr. Janos, tired of a conversation in which he had no share. "Armando, you will not mind my waking Mr. Muñoz?"

His brother had not the smallest objection, and the pianoforte was opened; and Lensherr, after a few moments' recollection, was not sorry for it. He began to feel the danger of paying Charles too much attention.

 

* * *

 

**Chapter 12**

In consequence of an agreement between the siblings, Charles wrote the next morning to their mother, to beg that the carriage might be sent for them in the course of the day. But Mrs. Xavier, who had calculated on her daughters remaining at Netherfield till the following Tuesday, which would exactly finish Raven's week, could not bring herself to receive them with pleasure before. Her answer, therefore, was not propitious, at least not to Charles’ wishes, for he was impatient to get home. Mrs. Xavier sent them word that they could not possibly have the carriage before Tuesday; and in her postscript it was added, that if Mr. McCoy and his brother pressed them to stay longer, she could spare them very well. Against staying longer, however, Charles was positively resolved—nor did he much expect it would be asked; and fearful, on the contrary, as being considered as intruding themselves needlessly long, she urged Raven to borrow Mr. McCoy's carriage immediately, and at length it was settled that their original design of leaving Netherfield that morning should be mentioned, and the request made.

The communication excited many professions of concern; and enough was said of wishing them to stay at least till the following day to work on Raven; and till the morrow their going was deferred. Mr. Janos was then sorry that he had proposed the delay, for his jealousy and dislike of one sibling much exceeded his affection for the other.

The master of the house heard with real sorrow that they were to go so soon, and repeatedly tried to persuade Miss Xavier that it would not be safe for her—that she was not enough recovered; but Raven was firm where she felt herself to be right.

To Mr. Lensherr it was welcome intelligence—Charles had been at Netherfield long enough. He attracted him more than he liked—and Mr. Janos was uncivil to  _him_ , and more teasing than usual to himself. He wisely resolved to be particularly careful that no sign of admiration should  _now_  escape him, nothing that could elevate her with the hope of influencing his felicity; sensible that if such an idea had been suggested, his behaviour during the last day must have material weight in confirming or crushing it. Steady to his purpose, he scarcely spoke ten words to him through the whole of Saturday, and though they were at one time left by themselves for half-an-hour, he adhered most conscientiously to his book, and would not even look at him.

On Sunday, after morning service, the separation, so agreeable to almost all, took place. Mr. Janos’ civility to Charles increased at last very rapidly, as well as her affection for Raven; and when they parted, after assuring the latter of the pleasure it would always give him to see her either at Longbourn or Netherfield, and embracing her most tenderly, he even shook hands with the former. Charles took leave of the whole party in the liveliest of spirits.

They were not welcomed home very cordially by their mother. Mrs. Xavier wondered at their coming, and thought them very wrong to give so much trouble, and was sure Raven would have caught cold again. But their father, though very laconic in his expressions of pleasure, was really glad to see them; he had felt their importance in the family circle. The evening conversation, when they were all assembled, had lost much of its animation, and almost all its sense by the absence of Raven and Charles.

They found Azazel, as usual, deep in the study of thorough-bass and human nature; and had some extracts to admire, and some new observations of threadbare morality to listen to. Angel and Emma had information for them of a different sort. Much had been done and much had been said in the regiment since the preceding Wednesday; several of the officers had dined lately with their uncle, a private had been flogged, and it had actually been hinted that Colonel Rasputin was going to be married.


	5. Volume I: Chapters 13 - 15

**Chapter 13**

“I hope, my dear,” said Mr. Xavier to his wife, as they were at breakfast the next morning, “That you have ordered a good dinner to-day, because I have reason to expect an addition to our family party.”

“Who do you mean, my dear? I know of nobody that is coming, I am sure, unless Alex Summers should happen to call in—and I hope  _my_  dinners are good enough for her. I do not believe she often sees such at home.”

“The person of whom I speak is a gentleman, and a stranger.”

Mrs. Xavier's eyes sparkled. “A gentleman and a stranger! It is Mr. McCoy, I am sure! Well, I am sure I shall be extremely glad to see Mr. McCoy. But—good Lord! How unlucky! There is not a bit of fish to be got to-day. Emma, my love, ring the bell—I must speak to Hill this moment.”

“It is  _not_  Mr. McCoy,” said her husband; “It is a person whom I never saw in the whole course of my life.”

This roused a general astonishment; and he had the pleasure of being eagerly questioned by his wife and his five children at once.

After amusing himself some time with their curiosity, he thus explained:

“About a month ago I received this letter; and about a fortnight ago I answered it, for I thought it a case of some delicacy, and requiring early attention. It is from my cousin, Mr. Cassidy, who, when I am dead, may turn you all out of this house as soon as he pleases.”

“Oh! My dear,” cried his wife, “I cannot bear to hear that mentioned. Pray do not talk of that odious man. I do think it is the hardest thing in the world, that your estate should be entailed away from your own children; and I am sure, if I had been you, I should have tried long ago to do something or other about it.”

Raven and Charles tried to explain to her the nature of an entail. They had often attempted to do it before, but it was a subject on which Mrs. Xavier was beyond the reach of reason, and she continued to rail bitterly against the cruelty of settling an estate away from a family of five children, in favour of a man whom nobody cared anything about.

“It certainly is a most iniquitous affair,” said Mr. Xavier, “And nothing can clear Mr. Cassidy from the guilt of inheriting Longbourn. But if you will listen to his letter, you may perhaps be a little softened by his manner of expressing himself.”

“No, that I am sure I shall not; and I think it is very impertinent of him to write to you at all, and very hypocritical. I hate such false friends. Why could he not keep on quarreling with you, as his father did before him?”

“Why, indeed; he does seem to have had some filial scruples on that head, as you will hear.”

Hunsford, near Westerham, Kent, 15th October.

_Dear Sir,—_

_The disagreement subsisting between yourself and my late honoured father always gave me much uneasiness, and since I have had the misfortune to lose him, I have frequently wished to heal the breach; but for some time I was kept back by my own doubts, fearing lest it might seem disrespectful to his memory for me to be on good terms with anyone with whom it had always pleased him to be at variance.—‘There, Mrs. Xavier.’—My mind, however, is now made up on the subject, for having received ordination at Easter, I have been so fortunate as to be distinguished by the patronage of the Right Honourable Lady Jean de Grey, widow of Sir Scott de Grey, whose bounty and beneficence has preferred me to the valuable rectory of this parish, where it shall be my earnest endeavour to demean myself with grateful respect towards her ladyship, and be ever ready to perform those rites and ceremonies which are instituted by the Church of England. As a clergyman, moreover, I feel it my duty to promote and establish the blessing of peace in all families within the reach of my influence; and on these grounds I flatter myself that my present overtures are highly commendable, and that the circumstance of my being next in the entail of Longbourn estate will be kindly overlooked on your side, and not lead you to reject the offered olive-branch. I cannot be otherwise than concerned at being the means of injuring your amiable children, and beg leave to apologise for it, as well as to assure you of my readiness to make them every possible amends—but of this hereafter. If you should have no objection to receive me into your house, I propose myself the satisfaction of waiting on you and your family, Monday, November 18th, by four o'clock, and shall probably trespass on your hospitality till the Saturday se'ennight following, which I can do without any inconvenience, as Lady Jean is far from objecting to my occasional absence on a Sunday, provided that some other clergyman is engaged to do the duty of the day.—I remain, dear sir, with respectful compliments to your lady and children, your well-wisher and friend,_

_SEAN CASSIDY_

“At four o'clock, therefore, we may expect this peace-making gentleman,” said Mr. Xavier, as he folded up the letter. “He seems to be a most conscientious and polite young man, upon my word, and I doubt not will prove a valuable acquaintance, especially if Lady Jean should be so indulgent as to let him come to us again.”

“There is some sense in what he says about the children, however, and if he is disposed to make them any amends, I shall not be the person to discourage him.”

“Though it is difficult,” said Raven, “To guess in what way he can mean to make us the atonement he thinks our due, the wish is certainly to his credit.”

Charles was chiefly struck by his extraordinary deference for Lady Jean, and his kind intention of christening, marrying, and burying his parishioners whenever it were required.

“He must be an oddity, I think,” said he. “I cannot make him out.—There is something very pompous in his style.—And what can he mean by apologising for being next in the entail?—We cannot suppose he would help it if he could.—Could he be a sensible man, sir?”

“No, my dear, I think not. I have great hopes of finding him quite the reverse. There is a mixture of servility and self-importance in his letter, which promises well. I am impatient to see him.”

“In point of composition,” said Azazel, “The letter does not seem defective. The idea of the olive-branch perhaps is not wholly new, yet I think it is well expressed.”

To Angel and Emma, neither the letter nor its writer were in any degree interesting. It was next to impossible that their cousin should come in a scarlet coat, and it was now some weeks since they had received pleasure from the society of a man in any other colour. As for their mother, Mr. Cassidy’s letter had done away much of her ill-will, and she was preparing to see him with a degree of composure which astonished her husband and daughters.

Mr. Cassidy was punctual to his time, and was received with great politeness by the whole family. Mr. Xavier indeed said little; but the ladies were ready enough to talk, and Mr. Cassidy seemed neither in need of encouragement, nor inclined to be silent himself. He was a tall, heavy-looking young man of five-and-twenty. His air was grave and stately, and his manners were very formal. He had not been long seated before he complimented Mrs. Xavier on having so fine a family of children; said he had heard much of their beauty, but that in this instance fame had fallen short of the truth; and added, that he did not doubt her seeing them all in due time disposed of in marriage. This gallantry was not much to the taste of some of his hearers; but Mrs. Xavier, who quarreled with no compliments, answered most readily.

“You are very kind, I am sure; and I wish with all my heart it may prove so, for else they will be destitute enough. Things are settled so oddly.”

“You allude, perhaps, to the entail of this estate.”

“Ah! Sir, I do indeed. It is a grievous affair to my poor children, you must confess. Not that I mean to find fault with  _you_ , for such things I know are all chance in this world. There is no knowing how estates will go when once they come to be entailed.”

“I am very sensible, madam, of the hardship to my fair cousins, and could say much on the subject, but that I am cautious of appearing forward and precipitate. But I can assure the young ladies and gentlemen that I come prepared to admire them. At present I will not say more; but, perhaps, when we are better acquainted—”

He was interrupted by a summons to dinner; and the children smiled on each other. They were not the only objects of Mr. Cassidy's admiration. The hall, the dining-room, and all its furniture, were examined and praised; and his commendation of everything would have touched Mrs. Xavier's heart, but for the mortifying supposition of his viewing it all as his own future property. The dinner too in its turn was highly admired; and he begged to know to which of his fair cousins the excellency of its cooking was owing. But he was set right there by Mrs. Xavier, who assured him with some asperity that they were very well able to keep a good cook, and that her children had nothing to do in the kitchen. He begged pardon for having displeased her. In a softened tone she declared herself not at all offended; but he continued to apologise for about a quarter of an hour.

 

* * *

 

**Chapter 14**

During dinner, Mr. Xavier scarcely spoke at all; but when the servants were withdrawn, he thought it time to have some conversation with his guest, and therefore started a subject in which he expected him to shine, by observing that he seemed very fortunate in his patroness. Lady Jean de Grey's attention to his wishes, and consideration for his comfort, appeared very remarkable. Mr. Xavier could not have chosen better. Mr. Cassidy was eloquent in her praise. The subject elevated him to more than usual solemnity of manner, and with a most important aspect he protested that “he had never in his life witnessed such behaviour in a person of rank—such affability and condescension, as he had himself experienced from Lady Jean. She had been graciously pleased to approve of both of the discourses which he had already had the honour of preaching before her. She had also asked him twice to dine at Rosings, and had sent for him only the Saturday before, to make up her pool of quadrille in the evening. Lady Jean was reckoned proud by many people he knew, but  _he_  had never seen anything but affability in her. She had always spoken to him as she would to any other gentleman; she made not the smallest objection to his joining in the society of the neighbourhood nor to his leaving the parish occasionally for a week or two, to visit his relations. She had even condescended to advise him to marry as soon as he could, provided he chose with discretion; and had once paid him a visit in his humble parsonage, where she had perfectly approved all the alterations he had been making, and had even vouchsafed to suggest some herself—some shelves in the closet up stairs.”

“That is all very proper and civil, I am sure,” said Mrs. Xavier, “And I dare say she is a very agreeable woman. It is a pity that great ladies in general are not more like her. Does she live near you, sir?”

“The garden in which stands my humble abode is separated only by a lane from Rosings Park, her ladyship's residence.”

“I think you said she was a widow, sir? Has she any family?”

“She has only one daughter, the heiress of Rosings, and of very extensive property.”

“Ah!” said Mrs. Xavier, shaking her head, “Then she is better off than many girls. And what sort of young lady is she? Is she handsome?”

“She is a most charming young lady indeed. Lady Jean herself says that, in point of true beauty, Miss de Grey is far superior to the handsomest of her sex, because there is that in her features which marks the young lady of distinguished birth. She is unfortunately of a sickly constitution, which has prevented her from making that progress in many accomplishments which she could not have otherwise failed of, as I am informed by the lady who superintended her education, and who still resides with them. But she is perfectly amiable, and often condescends to drive by my humble abode in her little phaeton and ponies.”

“Has she been presented? I do not remember her name among the ladies at court.”

“Her indifferent state of health unhappily prevents her being in town; and by that means, as I told Lady Jean one day, has deprived the British court of its brightest ornament. Her ladyship seemed pleased with the idea; and you may imagine that I am happy on every occasion to offer those little delicate compliments which are always acceptable to ladies. I have more than once observed to Lady Jean, that her charming daughter seemed born to be a duchess, and that the most elevated rank, instead of giving her consequence, would be adorned by her. These are the kind of little things which please her ladyship, and it is a sort of attention which I conceive myself peculiarly bound to pay.”

“You judge very properly,” said Mr. Xavier, “And it is happy for you that you possess the talent of flattering with delicacy. May I ask whether these pleasing attentions proceed from the impulse of the moment, or are the result of previous study?”

“They arise chiefly from what is passing at the time, and though I sometimes amuse myself with suggesting and arranging such little elegant compliments as may be adapted to ordinary occasions, I always wish to give them as unstudied an air as possible.”

Mr. Xavier's expectations were fully answered. His cousin was as absurd as he had hoped, and he listened to him with the keenest enjoyment, maintaining at the same time the most resolute composure of countenance, and, except in an occasional glance at Charles, requiring no partner in his pleasure.

By tea-time, however, the dose had been enough, and Mr. Xavier was glad to take his guest into the drawing-room again, and, when tea was over, glad to invite him to read aloud to the children. Mr. Cassidy readily assented, and a book was produced; but, on beholding it (for everything announced it to be from a circulating library), he started back, and begging pardon, protested that he never read novels. Angel stared at him, and Emma exclaimed. Other books were produced, and after some deliberation he chose Fordyce's Sermons. Emma gaped as he opened the volume, and before he had, with very monotonous solemnity, read three pages, she interrupted him with:

“Do you know, mamma, that my uncle Munroe talks of turning away Richard; and if he does, Colonel Rasputin will hire him. My aunt told me so herself on Saturday. I shall walk to Meryton to-morrow to hear more about it, and to ask when Mr. Denny comes back from town.”

Emma was bid by her two eldest siblings to hold her tongue; but Mr. Cassidy, much offended, laid aside his book, and said:

“I have often observed how little young ladies are interested by books of a serious stamp, though written solely for their benefit. It amazes me, I confess; for, certainly, there can be nothing so advantageous to them as instruction. But I will no longer importune my young cousin.”

Then turning to Mr. Xavier, he offered himself as his antagonist at backgammon. Mr. Xavier accepted the challenge, observing that he acted very wisely in leaving the children to their own trifling amusements. Mrs. Xavier and her children apologised most civilly for Emma's interruption, and promised that it should not occur again, if he would resume his book; but Mr. Cassidy, after assuring them that he bore his young cousin no ill-will, and should never resent her behaviour as any affront, seated himself at another table with Mr. Xavier, and prepared for backgammon.

 

* * *

 

**Chapter 15**

Mr. Cassidy was not a sensible man, and the deficiency of nature had been but little assisted by education or society; the greatest part of his life having been spent under the guidance of an illiterate and miserly father; and though he belonged to one of the universities, he had merely kept the necessary terms, without forming at it any useful acquaintance. The subjection in which his father had brought him up had given him originally great humility of manner; but it was now a good deal counteracted by the self-conceit of a weak head, living in retirement, and the consequential feelings of early and unexpected prosperity. A fortunate chance had recommended him to Lady Jean de Grey when the living of Hunsford was vacant; and the respect which he felt for her high rank, and his veneration for her as his patroness, mingling with a very good opinion of himself, of his authority as a clergyman, and his right as a rector, made him altogether a mixture of pride and obsequiousness, self-importance and humility.

Having now a good house and a very sufficient income, he intended to marry; and in seeking a reconciliation with the Longbourn family he had a spouse in view, as he meant to choose one of the children, if he found them as handsome and amiable as they were represented by common report. This was his plan of amends—of atonement—for inheriting their father's estate; and he thought it an excellent one, full of eligibility and suitableness, and excessively generous and disinterested on his own part.

His plan did not vary on seeing them. Miss Xavier's lovely face confirmed his views, and established all his strictest notions of what was due to seniority; and for the first evening  _she_  was his settled choice. The next morning, however, made an alteration; for in a quarter of an hour's tete-a-tete with Mrs. Xavier before breakfast, a conversation beginning with his parsonage-house, and leading naturally to the avowal of his hopes, that a mistress might be found for it at Longbourn, produced from her, amid very complaisant smiles and general encouragement, a caution against the very Raven he had fixed on. “As to her  _younger_  daughters, she could not take upon her to say—she could not positively answer—but she did not  _know_  of any prepossession; her  _eldest_  daughter, she must just mention—she felt it incumbent on her to hint, was likely to be very soon engaged.”

Mr. Collins had only to change from Raven to Charles—and it was soon done—done while Mrs. Xavier was stirring the fire. Charles, equally next to Raven in birth and beauty, succeeded her of course.

Mrs. Xavier treasured up the hint, and trusted that she might soon have two children married; and the man whom she could not bear to speak of the day before was now high in her good graces.

Emma's intention of walking to Meryton was not forgotten; every sister except Azazel agreed to go with her; and Mr. Cassidy was to attend them, at the request of Mr. Xavier, who was most anxious to get rid of him, and have his library to himself; for thither Mr. Cassidy had followed him after breakfast; and there he would continue, nominally engaged with one of the largest folios in the collection, but really talking to Mr. Xavier, with little cessation, of his house and garden at Hunsford. Such doings discomposed Mr. Xavier exceedingly. In his library he had been always sure of leisure and tranquillity; and though prepared, as he told Charles, to meet with folly and conceit in every other room of the house, he was used to be free from them there; his civility, therefore, was most prompt in inviting Mr. Cassidy to join his children in their walk; and Mr. Cassidy, being in fact much better fitted for a walker than a reader, was extremely pleased to close his large book, and go.

In pompous nothings on his side, and civil assents on that of his cousins, their time passed till they entered Meryton. The attention of the younger ones was then no longer to be gained by him. Their eyes were immediately wandering up in the street in quest of the officers, and nothing less than a very smart bonnet indeed, or a really new muslin in a shop window, could recall them.

But the attention of every one was soon caught by a young man, whom they had never seen before, of most gentlemanlike appearance, walking with another officer on the other side of the way. The officer was the very Mr. Denny concerning whose return from London Emma came to inquire, and he bowed as they passed. All were struck with the stranger's air, all wondered who he could be; and Angel and Emma, determined if possible to find out, led the way across the street, under pretense of wanting something in an opposite shop, and fortunately had just gained the pavement when the two gentlemen, turning back, had reached the same spot. Mr. Denny addressed them directly, and entreated permission to introduce his friend, Mr. Shaw, who had returned with him the day before from town, and he was happy to say had accepted a commission in their corps. This was exactly as it should be; for the young man wanted only regimentals to make him completely charming. His appearance was greatly in his favour; he had all the best part of beauty, a fine countenance, a good figure, and very pleasing address. The introduction was followed up on his side by a happy readiness of conversation—a readiness at the same time perfectly correct and unassuming; and the whole party were still standing and talking together very agreeably, when the sound of horses drew their notice, and Lensherr and McCoy were seen riding down the street. On distinguishing the ladies of the group, the two gentlemen came directly towards them, and began the usual civilities. McCoy was the principal spokesman, and Miss Xavier the principal object. He was then, he said, on his way to Longbourn on purpose to inquire after her. Mr. Lensherr corroborated it with a bow, and was beginning to determine not to fix his eyes on Charles, when they were suddenly arrested by the sight of the stranger, and Charles happening to see the countenance of both as they looked at each other, was all astonishment at the effect of the meeting. Both changed colour, one looked white, the other red. Mr. Shaw, after a few moments, touched his hat—a salutation which Mr. Lensherr just deigned to return. What could be the meaning of it? It was impossible to imagine; it was impossible not to long to know. Charles felt the urge to listen to their thoughts burn and _barely_ managed to keep himself in check.

In another minute, Mr. McCoy, but without seeming to have noticed what passed, took leave and rode on with his friend.

Mr. Denny and Mr. Shaw walked with the young ladies to the door of Mr. Munroe's house, and then made their bows, in spite of Miss Emma's pressing entreaties that they should come in, and even in spite of Mrs. Munroe's throwing up the parlour window and loudly seconding the invitation.

Mrs. Munroe was always glad to see her nieces and nephews; and the two eldest, from their recent absence, were particularly welcome, and she was eagerly expressing her surprise at their sudden return home, which, as their own carriage had not fetched them, she should have known nothing about, if she had not happened to see Mr. Jones's shop-boy in the street, who had told her that they were not to send any more draughts to Netherfield because the Xaviers were come away, when her civility was claimed towards Mr. Cassidy by Raven's introduction of him. She received him with her very best politeness, which he returned with as much more, apologising for his intrusion, without any previous acquaintance with her, which he could not help flattering himself, however, might be justified by his relationship to the young ladies and gentleman who introduced him to her notice. Mrs. Munroe was quite awed by such an excess of good breeding; but her contemplation of one stranger was soon put to an end by exclamations and inquiries about the other; of whom, however, she could only tell her nieces what they already knew, that Mr. Denny had brought him from London, and that he was to have a lieutenant's commission in the ——shire. She had been watching him the last hour, she said, as he walked up and down the street, and had Mr. Shaw appeared, Angel and Emma would certainly have continued the occupation, but unluckily no one passed windows now except a few of the officers, who, in comparison with the stranger, were become “stupid, disagreeable fellows.” Some of them were to dine with the Munroes the next day, and their aunt promised to make her husband call on Mr. Shaw, and give him an invitation also, if the family from Longbourn would come in the evening. This was agreed to, and Mrs. Munroe protested that they would have a nice comfortable noisy game of lottery tickets, and a little bit of hot supper afterwards. The prospect of such delights was very cheering, and they parted in mutual good spirits. Mr. Cassidy repeated his apologies in quitting the room, and was assured with unwearying civility that they were perfectly needless.

As they walked home, Charles related to Raven what he had seen pass between the two gentlemen; but though Raven would have defended either or both, had they appeared to be in the wrong, she could no more explain such behaviour than her brother.

Mr. Cassidy on his return highly gratified Mrs. Xavier by admiring Mrs. Munroe's manners and politeness. He protested that, except Lady Jean and her daughter, he had never seen a more elegant woman; for she had not only received him with the utmost civility, but even pointedly included him in her invitation for the next evening, although utterly unknown to her before. Something, he supposed, might be attributed to his connection with them, but yet he had never met with so much attention in the whole course of his life.


	6. Volume I: Chapters 16 - 18

**Chapter 16**

As no objection was made to the young people's engagement with their aunt, and all Mr. Cassidy’s scruples of leaving Mr. and Mrs. Xavier for a single evening during his visit were most steadily resisted, the coach conveyed him and his five cousins at a suitable hour to Meryton; and the girls had the pleasure of hearing, as they entered the drawing-room, that Mr. Shaw had accepted their uncle's invitation, and was then in the house.

When this information was given, and they had all taken their seats, Mr. Cassidy was at leisure to look around him and admire, and he was so much struck with the size and furniture of the apartment, that he declared he might almost have supposed himself in the small summer breakfast parlour at Rosings; a comparison that did not at first convey much gratification; but when Mrs. Monrue understood from him what Rosings was, and who was its proprietor—when she had listened to the description of only one of Lady Jean's drawing-rooms, and found that the chimney-piece alone had cost eight hundred pounds, she felt all the force of the compliment, and would hardly have resented a comparison with the housekeeper's room.

In describing to her all the grandeur of Lady Jean and her mansion, with occasional digressions in praise of his own humble abode, and the improvements it was receiving, he was happily employed until the gentlemen joined them; and he found in Mrs. Munroe a very attentive listener, whose opinion of his consequence increased with what she heard, and who was resolving to retail it all among her neighbours as soon as she could. To the Xaviers, who could not listen to their cousin, and who had nothing to do but to wish for an instrument, and examine their own indifferent imitations of china on the mantelpiece, the interval of waiting appeared very long. It was over at last, however. The gentlemen did approach, and when Mr. Shaw walked into the room, Charles felt that he had neither been seeing him before, nor thinking of him since, with the smallest degree of unreasonable admiration. The officers of the ——shire were in general a very creditable, gentlemanlike set, and the best of them were of the present party; but Mr. Shaw was as far beyond them all in person, countenance, air, and walk, as  _they_  were superior to the broad-faced, stuffy uncle Munroe, breathing port wine, who followed them into the room.

Mr. Shaw was the happy man towards whom almost every eye was turned, and Charles was the happy man by whom he finally seated himself; and the agreeable manner in which he immediately fell into conversation, though it was only on its being a wet night, made him feel that the commonest, dullest, most threadbare topic might be rendered interesting by the skill of the speaker.

With such rivals for the notice of the fair as Mr. Shaw and the officers, Mr. Cassidy seemed to sink into insignificance; to the young ladies he certainly was nothing; but he had still at intervals a kind listener in Mrs. Munroe, and was by her watchfulness, most abundantly supplied with coffee and muffin. When the card-tables were placed, he had the opportunity of obliging her in turn, by sitting down to whist.

“I know little of the game at present,” said he, “But I shall be glad to improve myself, for in my situation in life—” Mrs. Munroe was very glad for his compliance, but could not wait for his reason.

Mr. Shaw did not play at whist, and with ready delight was he received at the other table between Charles and Emma. At first there seemed danger of Emma's engrossing him entirely, for she was a most determined talker; but being likewise extremely fond of lottery tickets, she soon grew too much interested in the game, too eager in making bets and exclaiming after prizes to have attention for anyone in particular. Allowing for the common demands of the game, Mr. Shaw was therefore at leisure to talk to Charles, and he was very willing to hear him, though what he chiefly wished to hear he could not hope to be told—the history of his acquaintance with Mr. Lensherr. He dared not even mention that gentleman, afraid that the temptation to read Mr. Shaw’s mind would become too much for him. His curiosity, however, was unexpectedly relieved. Mr. Shaw began the subject himself. He inquired how far Netherfield was from Meryton; and, after receiving her answer, asked in a hesitating manner how long Mr. Lensherr had been staying there.

“About a month,” said Charles; and then, unwilling to let the subject drop, added, “He is a man of very large property in Derbyshire, I understand.”

“Yes,” replied Mr. Shaw; “His estate there is a noble one. A clear ten thousand per annum. You could not have met with a person more capable of giving you certain information on that head than myself, for I have been connected with his family in a particular manner from my infancy.”

Charles could not but look surprised.

“You may well be surprised, Mr. Xavier, at such an assertion, after seeing, as you probably might, the very cold manner of our meeting yesterday. Are you much acquainted with Mr. Lensherr?”

“As much as I ever wish to be,” cried Charles very warmly. “I have spent four days in the same house with him, and I think him very disagreeable.”

“I have no right to give  _my_  opinion,” said Shaw, “As to his being agreeable or otherwise. I am not qualified to form one. I have known him too long and too well to be a fair judge. It is impossible for  _me_  to be impartial. But I believe your opinion of him would in general astonish—and perhaps you would not express it quite so strongly anywhere else. Here you are in your own family.”

“Upon my word, I say no more  _here_  than I might say in any house in the neighbourhood, except Netherfield. He is not at all liked in Hertfordshire. Everybody is disgusted with his pride. You will not find him more favourably spoken of by anyone.”

“I cannot pretend to be sorry,” said Shaw, after a short interruption, “That he or that any man should not be estimated beyond their deserts; but with  _him_  I believe it does not often happen. The world is blinded by his fortune and consequence, or frightened by his high and imposing manners, and sees him only as he chooses to be seen.”

“I should take him, even on  _my_  slight acquaintance, to be an ill-tempered man.” Shaw only shook his head.

“I wonder,” said he, at the next opportunity of speaking, “Whether he is likely to be in this country much longer.”

“I do not at all know; but I  _heard_  nothing of his going away when I was at Netherfield. I hope your plans in favour of the ——shire will not be affected by his being in the neighbourhood.”

“Oh! no—it is not for  _me_  to be driven away by Mr. Lensherr. If  _he_  wishes to avoid seeing  _me_ , he must go. We are not on friendly terms, and it always gives me pain to meet him, but I have no reason for avoiding  _him_  but what I might proclaim before all the world, a sense of very great ill-usage, and most painful regrets at his being what he is. His father, Mr. Xavier, the late Mr. Lensherr, was one of the best men that ever breathed, and the truest friend I ever had; and I can never be in company with this Mr. Lensherr without being grieved to the soul by a thousand tender recollections. His behaviour to myself has been scandalous; but I verily believe I could forgive him anything and everything, rather than his disappointing the hopes and disgracing the memory of his father.”

Charles found the interest of the subject increase, and listened with all his heart; but the delicacy of it prevented further inquiry. Once again, the burning desire to just reach into Mr. Shaw’s mind and retrieve the answers he wished filled him. But, no. He had been trained to avoid that particular intimacy his entire life.

Mr. Shaw began to speak on more general topics, Meryton, the neighbourhood, the society, appearing highly pleased with all that he had yet seen, and speaking of the latter with gentle but very intelligible gallantry.

“It was the prospect of constant society, and good society,” He added, “Which was my chief inducement to enter the ——shire. I knew it to be a most respectable, agreeable corps, and my friend Denny tempted me further by his account of their present quarters, and the very great attentions and excellent acquaintances Meryton had procured them. Society, I own, is necessary to me. I have been a disappointed man, and my spirits will not bear solitude. I  _must_  have employment and society. A military life is not what I was intended for, but circumstances have now made it eligible. The church  _ought_  to have been my profession—I was brought up for the church, and I should at this time have been in possession of a most valuable living, had it pleased the gentleman we were speaking of just now.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes—the late Mr. Lensherr bequeathed me the next presentation of the best living in his gift. He was my godfather, and excessively attached to me. I cannot do justice to his kindness. He meant to provide for me amply, and thought he had done it; but when the living fell, it was given elsewhere.”

“Good heavens!” cried Charles; “But how could  _that_  be? How could his will be disregarded? Why did you not seek legal redress?”

“There was just such an informality in the terms of the bequest as to give me no hope from law. A man of honour could not have doubted the intention, but Mr. Lensherr chose to doubt it—or to treat it as a merely conditional recommendation, and to assert that I had forfeited all claim to it by extravagance, imprudence—in short anything or nothing. Certain it is, that the living became vacant two years ago, exactly as I was of an age to hold it, and that it was given to another man; and no less certain is it, that I cannot accuse myself of having really done anything to deserve to lose it. I have a warm, unguarded temper, and I may have spoken my opinion  _of_  him, and  _to_  him, too freely. I can recall nothing worse. But the fact is, that we are very different sort of men, and that he hates me.”

“This is quite shocking! He deserves to be publicly disgraced.”

“Some time or other he  _will_  be—but it shall not be by  _me_. Till I can forget his father, I can never defy or expose  _him_.”

Charles honoured him for such feelings, and thought him handsomer than ever as he expressed them.

“But what,” said he, after a pause, “Can have been his motive? What can have induced him to behave so cruelly?”

“A thorough, determined dislike of me—a dislike which I cannot but attribute in some measure to jealousy. Had the late Mr. Lensherr liked me less, his son might have borne with me better; but his father's uncommon attachment to me irritated him, I believe, very early in life. He had not a temper to bear the sort of competition in which we stood—the sort of preference which was often given me.”

“I had not thought Mr. Lensherr so bad as this—though I have never liked him. I had not thought so very ill of him. I had supposed him to be despising his fellow-creatures in general, but did not suspect him of descending to such malicious revenge, such injustice, such inhumanity as this.”

After a few minutes' reflection, however, he continued, “I  _do_  remember his boasting one day, at Netherfield, of the implacability of his resentments, of his having an unforgiving temper. His disposition must be dreadful.”

“I will not trust myself on the subject,” replied Shaw; “I can hardly be just to him.”

Charles was again deep in thought, and after a time exclaimed, “To treat in such a manner the godson, the friend, the favourite of his father!” He could have added, “A young man, too, like  _you_ , whose very countenance may vouch for your being amiable”—but he contented herself with, “And one, too, who had probably been his companion from childhood, connected together, as I think you said, in the closest manner!”

“We were born in the same parish, within the same park; the greatest part of our youth was passed together; inmates of the same house, sharing the same amusements, objects of the same parental care.  _My_  father began life in the profession which your uncle, Mr. Munroe, appears to do so much credit to—but he gave up everything to be of use to the late Mr. Lensherr and devoted all his time to the care of the Pemberley property. He was most highly esteemed by Mr. Lensherr, a most intimate, confidential friend. Mr. Lensherr often acknowledged himself to be under the greatest obligations to my father's active superintendence, and when, immediately before my father's death, Mr. Lensherr gave him a voluntary promise of providing for me, I am convinced that he felt it to be as much a debt of gratitude to  _him_ , as of his affection to myself.”

“How strange!” cried Charles. “How abominable! I wonder that the very pride of this Mr. Lensherr has not made him just to you! If from no better motive, that he should not have been too proud to be dishonest—for dishonesty I must call it.”

“It  _is_  wonderful,” replied Shaw, “For almost all his actions may be traced to pride; and pride had often been his best friend. It has connected him nearer with virtue than with any other feeling. But we are none of us consistent, and in his behaviour to me there were stronger impulses even than pride.”

“Can such abominable pride as his have ever done him good?”

“Yes. It has often led him to be liberal and generous, to give his money freely, to display hospitality, to assist his tenants, and relieve the poor. Family pride, and  _filial_  pride—for he is very proud of what his father was—have done this. Not to appear to disgrace his family, to degenerate from the popular qualities, or lose the influence of the Pemberley House, is a powerful motive. He has also  _brotherly_  pride, which, with  _some_  brotherly affection, makes him a very kind and careful guardian of his sister, and you will hear him generally cried up as the most attentive and best of brothers.”

“What sort of girl is Miss Lensherr?”

He shook his head. “I wish I could call her amiable. It gives me pain to speak ill of a Lensherr. But she is too much like her brother—very, very proud. As a child, she was affectionate and pleasing, and extremely fond of me; and I have devoted hours and hours to her amusement. But she is nothing to me now. She is a handsome girl, about fifteen or sixteen, and, I understand, highly accomplished. Since her father's death, her home has been London, where a lady lives with her, and superintends her education.”

After many pauses and many trials of other subjects, Charles could not help reverting once more to the first, and saying:

“I am astonished at his intimacy with Mr. McCoy! How can Mr. McCoy, who seems good humour itself, and is, I really believe, truly amiable, be in friendship with such a man? How can they suit each other? Do you know Mr. McCoy?”

“Not at all.”

“He is a sweet-tempered, amiable, charming man. He cannot know what Mr. Lensherr is.”

“Probably not; but Mr. Lensherr can please where he chooses. He does not want abilities. He can be a conversible companion if he thinks it worth his while. Among those who are at all his equals in consequence, he is a very different man from what he is to the less prosperous. His pride never deserts him; but with the rich he is liberal-minded, just, sincere, rational, honourable, and perhaps agreeable—allowing something for fortune and figure.”

The whist party soon afterwards breaking up, the players gathered round the other table and Mr. Cassidy took his station between his cousin Charles and Mrs. Munroe. The usual inquiries as to his success were made by the latter. It had not been very great; he had lost every point; but when Mrs. Munroe began to express her concern thereupon, he assured her with much earnest gravity that it was not of the least importance, that he considered the money as a mere trifle, and begged that she would not make herself uneasy.

“I know very well, madam,” said he, “That when persons sit down to a card-table, they must take their chances of these things, and happily I am not in such circumstances as to make five shillings any object. There are undoubtedly many who could not say the same, but thanks to Lady Jean de Grey, I am removed far beyond the necessity of regarding little matters.”

Mr. Shaw's attention was caught; and after observing Mr. Cassidy for a few moments, he asked Charles in a low voice whether his relation was very intimately acquainted with the family of de Grey.

“Lady Jean de Grey,” He replied, “Has very lately given him a living. I hardly know how Mr. Cassidy was first introduced to her notice, but he certainly has not known her long.”

“You know of course that Lady Jean de Grey and Lady Rachel Lensherr were sisters; consequently that she is aunt to the present Mr. Lensherr.”

“No, indeed, I did not. I knew nothing at all of Lady Jean's connections. I never heard of her existence till the day before yesterday.”

“Her daughter, Miss de Grey, will have a very large fortune, and it is believed that she and her cousin will unite the two estates.”

This information made Charles smile, as she thought of poor Mr. Janos. Vain indeed must be all his attentions, vain and useless his affection for his sister and his praise of himself, if he were already self-destined for another.

“Mr. Cassidy,” said he, “Speaks highly both of Lady Jean and her daughter; but from some particulars that he has related of her ladyship, I suspect his gratitude misleads him, and that in spite of her being his patroness, she is an arrogant, conceited woman.”

“I believe her to be both in a great degree,” replied Shaw; “I have not seen her for many years, but I very well remember that I never liked her, and that her manners were dictatorial and insolent. She has the reputation of being remarkably sensible and clever; but I rather believe she derives part of her abilities from her rank and fortune, part from her authoritative manner, and the rest from the pride for her nephew, who chooses that everyone connected with him should have an understanding of the first class.”

Charles allowed that he had given a very rational account of it, and they continued talking together, with mutual satisfaction till supper put an end to cards, and gave the rest of the people their share of Mr. Shaw's attentions. There could be no conversation in the noise of Mrs. Munroe's supper party, but his manners recommended him to everybody. Whatever he said, was said well; and whatever he did, done gracefully. Charles went away with his head full of him. He could think of nothing but of Mr. Shaw, and of what he had told him, all the way home; but there was not time for him even to mention his name as they went, for neither Emma nor Mr. Cassidy were once silent. Emma talked incessantly of lottery tickets, of the fish she had lost and the fish she had won; and Mr. Cassidy in describing the civility of Mr. and Mrs. Munroe, protesting that he did not in the least regard his losses at whist, enumerating all the dishes at supper, and repeatedly fearing that he crowded his cousins, had more to say than he could well manage before the carriage stopped at Longbourn House.

 

* * *

 

**Chapter 17**

Charles related to Raven the next day what had passed between Mr. Shaw and himself. Raven listened with astonishment and concern; she knew not how to believe that Mr. Lensherr could be so unworthy of Mr. McCoy's regard; and yet, it was not in her nature to question the veracity of a young man of such amiable appearance as Shaw. The possibility of his having endured such unkindness, was enough to interest all her tender feelings; and nothing remained therefore to be done, but to think well of them both, to defend the conduct of each, and throw into the account of accident or mistake whatever could not be otherwise explained.

“They have both,” said she, “Been deceived, I dare say, in some way or other, of which we can form no idea. Interested people have perhaps misrepresented each to the other. It is, in short, impossible for us to conjecture the causes or circumstances which may have alienated them, without actual blame on either side.”

“Very true, indeed; and now, my dear Raven, what have you got to say on behalf of the interested people who have probably been concerned in the business? Do clear  _them_  too, or we shall be obliged to think ill of somebody.”

“Laugh as much as you choose, but you will not laugh me out of my opinion. My dearest Charlie, do but consider in what a disgraceful light it places Mr. Lensherr, to be treating his father's favourite in such a manner, one whom his father had promised to provide for. It is impossible. No man of common humanity, no man who had any value for his character, could be capable of it. Can his most intimate friends be so excessively deceived in him? Oh! no.”

“I can much more easily believe Mr. McCoy's being imposed on, than that Mr. Shaw should invent such a history of himself as he gave me last night; names, facts, everything mentioned without ceremony. If it be not so, let Mr. Lensherr contradict it. Besides, there was truth in his looks.”

“It is difficult indeed—it is distressing. One does not know what to think.”

“I beg your pardon; one knows exactly what to think.”

But Raven could think with certainty on only one point—that Mr. McCoy, if he  _had_  been imposed on, would have much to suffer when the affair became public.

The two young siblings were summoned from the shrubbery, where this conversation passed, by the arrival of the very persons of whom they had been speaking; Mr. McCoy and his brothers came to give their personal invitation for the long-expected ball at Netherfield, which was fixed for the following Tuesday. The two gentlemen were delighted to see their dear friend again, called it an age since they had met, and repeatedly asked what she had been doing with herself since their separation. To the rest of the family they paid little attention; avoiding Mrs. Xavier as much as possible, saying not much to Charles, and nothing at all to the others. They were soon gone again, rising from their seats with an activity which took their brother by surprise, and hurrying off as if eager to escape from Mrs. Xavier's civilities.

The prospect of the Netherfield ball was extremely agreeable to every member of the family. Mrs. Xavier chose to consider it as given in compliment to her eldest daughter, and was particularly flattered by receiving the invitation from Mr. McCoy himself, instead of a ceremonious card. Raven pictured to herself a happy evening in the society of her two friends, and the attentions of their brother; and Charles thought with pleasure of dancing a great deal with Mr. Shaw, and of seeing a confirmation of everything in Mr. Lensherr's look and behaviour. The happiness anticipated by Angel and Emma depended less on any single event, or any particular person, for though they each, like Charles, meant to dance half the evening with Mr. Shaw, he was by no means the only partner who could satisfy them, and a ball was, at any rate, a ball. And even Azazel could assure his family that he had no disinclination for it.

“While I can have my mornings to myself,” said he, “It is enough—I think it is no sacrifice to join occasionally in evening engagements. Society has claims on us all; and I profess myself one of those who consider intervals of recreation and amusement as desirable for everybody.”

Charles' spirits were so high on this occasion, that though he did not often speak unnecessarily to Mr. Cassidy, he could not help asking him whether he intended to accept Mr. McCoy's invitation, and if he did, whether he would think it proper to join in the evening's amusement; and he was rather surprised to find that he entertained no scruple whatever on that head, and was very far from dreading a rebuke either from the Archbishop, or Lady Jean de Grey, by venturing to dance.

“I am by no means of the opinion, I assure you,” said he, “That a ball of this kind, given by a young man of character, to respectable people, can have any evil tendency; and I am so far from objecting to dancing myself, that I shall hope to be honoured with the hands of all my fair cousins in the course of the evening; and I take this opportunity of soliciting yours, Mr. Charles, for the two first dances especially, a preference which I trust my cousin Raven will attribute to the right cause, and not to any disrespect for her.”

Charles felt himself completely taken in. He had fully proposed being engaged by Mr. Shaw for those very dances; and to have Mr. Cassidy instead! His liveliness had never been worse timed. There was no help for it, however. Mr. Shaw's happiness and his own were perforce delayed a little longer, and Mr. Cassidy's proposal accepted with as good a grace as she could. He was not the better pleased with his gallantry from the idea it suggested of something more. It now first struck Charles, that  _he_  was selected from among her sisters as worthy of being master of Hunsford Parsonage, and of assisting to form a quadrille table at Rosings, in the absence of more eligible visitors. The idea soon reached to conviction, as he observed his increasing civilities toward himself, and heard his frequent attempt at a compliment on his wit and vivacity; and though more astonished than gratified himself by this effect of his charms, it was not long before his mother gave him to understand that the probability of their marriage was extremely agreeable to  _her_. Charles, however, did not choose to take the hint, being well aware that a serious dispute must be the consequence of any reply. Mr. Cassidy might never make the offer, and till he did, it was useless to quarrel about him.

If there had not been a Netherfield ball to prepare for and talk of, the younger Miss Xaviers would have been in a very pitiable state at this time, for from the day of the invitation, to the day of the ball, there was such a succession of rain as prevented their walking to Meryton once. No aunt, no officers, no news could be sought after—the very shoe-roses for Netherfield were got by proxy. Even Charles might have found some trial of his patience in weather which totally suspended the improvement of her acquaintance with Mr. Shaw; and nothing less than a dance on Tuesday, could have made such a Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and Monday endurable to Angel and Emma.

 

* * *

 

**Chapter 18**

Till Charles entered the drawing-room at Netherfield, and looked in vain for Mr. Shaw among the cluster of red coats there assembled, a doubt of his being present had never occurred to him. The certainty of meeting him had not been checked by any of those recollections that might not unreasonably have alarmed him. He had dressed with more than usual care, and prepared in the highest spirits for the conquest of all that remained unsubdued of his heart, trusting that it was not more than might be won in the course of the evening. But in an instant arose the dreadful suspicion of his being purposely omitted for Mr. Lensherr's pleasure in the McCoys' invitation to the officers; and though this was not exactly the case, the absolute fact of his absence was pronounced by his friend Denny, to whom Emma eagerly applied, and who told them that Shaw had been obliged to go to town on business the day before, and was not yet returned; adding, with a significant smile, “I do not imagine his business would have called him away just now, if he had not wanted to avoid a certain gentleman here.”

This part of his intelligence, though unheard by Emma, was caught by Charles, and, as it assured him that Lensherr was not less answerable for Shaw's absence than if his first surmise had been just, every feeling of displeasure against the former was so sharpened by immediate disappointment, that he could hardly reply with tolerable civility to the polite inquiries which he directly afterwards approached to make. Attendance, forbearance, patience with Lensherr, was injury to Shaw. He was resolved against any sort of conversation with him, and turned away with a degree of ill-humour which he could not wholly surmount even in speaking to Mr. McCoy, whose blind partiality provoked him.

But Charles was not formed for ill-humour; and though every prospect of his own was destroyed for the evening, it could not dwell long on his spirits; and having told all his griefs to Alex Summers, whom he had not seen for a week, he was soon able to make a voluntary transition to the oddities of her cousin, and to point him out to her particular notice. The first two dances, however, brought a return of distress; they were dances of mortification. Mr. Cassidy, awkward and solemn, apologising instead of attending, and often moving wrong without being aware of it, gave him all the shame and misery which a disagreeable partner for a couple of dances can give. The moment of his release from him was ecstasy.

He danced next with an officer, and had the refreshment of talking of Shaw, and of hearing that he was universally liked. When those dances were over, he returned to Alex Summers, and was in conversation with him, when he found herself suddenly addressed by Mr. Lensherr who took him so much by surprise in his application for his hand, that, without knowing what he did, he accepted him. He walked away again immediately, and he was left to fret over her own want of presence of mind; Alex tried to console him:

“I dare say you will find him very agreeable.”

“Heaven forbid!  _That_  would be the greatest misfortune of all! To find a man agreeable whom one is determined to hate! Do not wish me such an evil.”

When the dancing recommenced, however, and Lensherr approached to claim his hand, Alex could not help cautioning him in a whisper, not to be a simpleton, and allow his fancy for Shaw to make him appear unpleasant in the eyes of a man ten times his consequence. Charles made no answer, and took his place in the set, amazed at the dignity to which he was arrived in being allowed to stand opposite to Mr. Lensherr, and reading in his neighbours' looks, their equal amazement in beholding it. They stood for some time without speaking a word; and he began to imagine that their silence was to last through the two dances, and at first was resolved not to break it; till suddenly fancying that it would be the greater punishment to his partner to oblige him to talk, he made some slight observation on the dance. He replied, and was again silent. After a pause of some minutes, he addressed him a second time with:—“It is  _your_  turn to say something now, Mr. Lensherr. I talked about the dance, and  _you_  ought to make some sort of remark on the size of the room, or the number of couples.”

He smiled, and assured him that whatever he wished him to say should be said.

“Very well. That reply will do for the present. Perhaps by and by I may observe that private balls are much pleasanter than public ones. But  _now_  we may be silent.”

“Do you talk by rule, then, while you are dancing?”

“Sometimes. One must speak a little, you know. It would look odd to be entirely silent for half an hour together; and yet for the advantage of  _some_ , conversation ought to be so arranged, as that they may have the trouble of saying as little as possible.”

“Are you consulting your own feelings in the present case, or do you imagine that you are gratifying mine?”

“Both,” replied Charles archly; “For I have always seen a great similarity in the turn of our minds. We are each of an unsocial, taciturn disposition, unwilling to speak, unless we expect to say something that will amaze the whole room, and be handed down to posterity with all the eclat of a proverb.”

“This is no very striking resemblance of your own character, I am sure,” said he. “How near it may be to  _mine_ , I cannot pretend to say.  _You_  think it a faithful portrait undoubtedly.”

“I must not decide on my own performance.”

He made no answer, and they were again silent till they had gone down the dance, when he asked Charles if he and his siblings did not very often walk to Meryton. He answered in the affirmative, and, unable to resist the temptation, added, “When you met us there the other day, we had just been forming a new acquaintance.”

The effect was immediate. A deeper shade of  _hauteur_  overspread his features, but he said not a word, and Charles, though blaming himself for his own weakness, could not go on. At length Lensherr spoke, and in a constrained manner said, “Mr. Shaw is blessed with such happy manners as may ensure his  _making_  friends—whether he may be equally capable of  _retaining_  them, is less certain.”

“He has been so unlucky as to lose  _your_  friendship,” replied Charles with emphasis, “And in a manner which he is likely to suffer from all his life.”

Lensherr made no answer, and seemed desirous of changing the subject. At that moment, Sir Christopher Summers appeared close to them, meaning to pass through the set to the other side of the room; but on perceiving Mr. Lensherr, he stopped with a bow of superior courtesy to compliment him on his dancing and his partner.

“I have been most highly gratified indeed, my dear sir. Such very superior dancing is not often seen. It is evident that you belong to the first circles. Allow me to say, however, that your fair partner does not disgrace you, and that I must hope to have this pleasure often repeated, especially when a certain desirable event, my dear Charles (glancing at his sister and McCoy) shall take place. What congratulations will then flow in! I appeal to Mr. Lensherr:—but let me not interrupt you, sir. You will not thank me for detaining you from the bewitching converse of that young gentleman, whose bright eyes are also upbraiding me.”

The latter part of this address was scarcely heard by Lensherr; but Sir Christopher's allusion to his friend seemed to strike him forcibly, and his eyes were directed with a very serious expression towards McCoy and Raven, who were dancing together. Recovering himself, however, shortly, he turned to his partner, and said, “Sir Christopher's interruption has made me forget what we were talking of.”

“I do not think we were speaking at all. Sir Christopher could not have interrupted two people in the room who had less to say for themselves. We have tried two or three subjects already without success, and what we are to talk of next I cannot imagine.”

“What think you of books?” said he, smiling.

“Books—oh! No. I am sure we never read the same, or not with the same feelings.”

“I am sorry you think so; but if that be the case, there can at least be no want of subject. We may compare our different opinions.”

“No—I cannot talk of books in a ball-room; my head is always full of something else.”

“The  _present_  always occupies you in such scenes—does it?” said he, with a look of doubt.

“Yes, always,” Charles replied, without knowing what he said, for his thoughts had wandered far from the subject, as soon afterwards appeared by him suddenly exclaiming, “I remember hearing you once say, Mr. Lensherr, that you hardly ever forgave, that your resentment once created was unappeasable. You are very cautious, I suppose, as to its  _being created_.”

“I am,” said he, with a firm voice.

“And never allow yourself to be blinded by prejudice?”

“I hope not.”

“It is particularly incumbent on those who never change their opinion, to be secure of judging properly at first.”

“May I ask to what these questions tend?”

“Merely to the illustration of  _your_  character,” said he, endeavouring to shake off his gravity. “I am trying to make it out.”

“And what is your success?”

Charles shook his head. “I do not get on at all. I hear such different accounts of you as puzzle me exceedingly.”

“I can readily believe,” answered he gravely, “That reports may vary greatly with respect to me; and I could wish, Mr. Xavier, that you were not to sketch my character at the present moment, as there is reason to fear that the performance would reflect no credit on either.”

“But if I do not take your likeness now, I may never have another opportunity.”

“I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours,” he coldly replied. Charles said no more, and they went down the other dance and parted in silence; and on each side dissatisfied, though not to an equal degree, for in Lensherr’s breast there was a tolerably powerful feeling towards him, which soon procured his pardon, and directed all his anger against another.

They had not long separated, when Mr. Janos came towards her, and with an expression of civil disdain accosted her:

“So, Mr. Charles, I hear you are quite delighted with Sebastian Shaw! Your sister has been talking to me about him, and asking me a thousand questions; and I find that the young man quite forgot to tell you, among his other communication, that he was the son of old Shaw, the late Mr. Lensherr's steward. Let me recommend you, however, as a friend, not to give implicit confidence to all his assertions; for as to Mr. Lensherr's using him ill, it is perfectly false; for, on the contrary, he has always been remarkably kind to him, though Sebastian Shaw has treated Mr. Lensherr in a most infamous manner. I do not know the particulars, but I know very well that Mr. Lensherr is not in the least to blame, that he cannot bear to hear Sebastian Shaw mentioned, and that though my brother thought that he could not well avoid including him in his invitation to the officers, he was excessively glad to find that he had taken himself out of the way. His coming into the country at all is a most insolent thing, indeed, and I wonder how he could presume to do it. I pity you, Mr. Charles, for this discovery of your favourite's guilt; but really, considering his descent, one could not expect much better.”

“His guilt and his descent appear by your account to be the same,” said Charles angrily; “For I have heard you accuse him of nothing worse than of being the son of Mr. Darcy's steward, and of  _that_ , I can assure you, he informed me himself.”

“I beg your pardon,” replied Mr. Janos, turning away with a sneer. “Excuse my interference—it was kindly meant.”

“Insolent boy!” said Charles to himself. “You are much mistaken if you expect to influence me by such a paltry attack as this. I see nothing in it but your own wilful ignorance and the malice of Mr. Lensherr.” He then sought his eldest sister, who had undertaken to make inquiries on the same subject of McCoy. Raven met her with a smile of such sweet complacency, a glow of such happy expression, as sufficiently marked how well she was satisfied with the occurrences of the evening. Charles instantly read her feelings, and at that moment solicitude for Shaw, resentment against his enemies, and everything else, gave way before the hope of Raven's being in the fairest way for happiness.

“I want to know,” said he, with a countenance no less smiling than his sister's, “What you have learnt about Mr. Shaw. But perhaps you have been too pleasantly engaged to think of any third person; in which case you may be sure of my pardon.”

“No,” replied Raven, “I have not forgotten him; but I have nothing satisfactory to tell you. Mr. McCoy does not know the whole of his history, and is quite ignorant of the circumstances which have principally offended Mr. Lensherr; but he will vouch for the good conduct, the probity, and honour of his friend, and is perfectly convinced that Mr. Shaw has deserved much less attention from Mr. Lensherr than he has received; and I am sorry to say by his account as well as his brother's, Mr. Shaw is by no means a respectable young man. I am afraid he has been very imprudent, and has deserved to lose Mr. Lensherr's regard.”

“Mr. McCoy does not know Mr. Shaw himself?”

“No; he never saw him till the other morning at Meryton.”

“This account then is what he has received from Mr. Lensherr. I am satisfied. But what does he say of the living?”

“He does not exactly recollect the circumstances, though he has heard them from Mr. Lensherr more than once, but he believes that it was left to him  _conditionally_  only.”

“I have not a doubt of Mr. McCoy's sincerity,” said Charles warmly; “But you must excuse my not being convinced by assurances only. Mr. McCoy's defense of his friend was a very able one, I dare say; but since he is unacquainted with several parts of the story, and has learnt the rest from that friend himself, I shall venture to still think of both gentlemen as I did before.”

He then changed the discourse to one more gratifying to each, and on which there could be no difference of sentiment. Charles listened with delight to the happy, though modest hopes which Raven entertained of Mr. McCoy's regard, and said all in her power to heighten her confidence in it. On their being joined by Mr. McCoy himself, Charles withdrew to Mr. Alex; to whose inquiry after the pleasantness of his last partner he had scarcely replied, before Mr. Cassidy came up to them, and told her with great exultation that he had just been so fortunate as to make a most important discovery.

“I have found out,” said he, “By a singular accident, that there is now in the room a near relation of my patroness. I happened to overhear the gentleman himself mentioning to the young lady who does the honours of the house the names of his cousin Miss de Grey, and of her mother Lady Jean. How wonderfully these sort of things occur! Who would have thought of my meeting with, perhaps, a nephew of Lady Jean de Grey in this assembly! I am most thankful that the discovery is made in time for me to pay my respects to him, which I am now going to do, and trust he will excuse my not having done it before. My total ignorance of the connection must plead my apology.”

“You are not going to introduce yourself to Mr. Lensherr!”

“Indeed I am. I shall entreat his pardon for not having done it earlier. I believe him to be Lady Jean's  _nephew_. It will be in my power to assure him that her ladyship was quite well yesterday se'nnight.”

Charles tried hard to dissuade him from such a scheme, assuring him that Mr. Lensherr would consider his addressing him without introduction as an impertinent freedom, rather than a compliment to his aunt; that it was not in the least necessary there should be any notice on either side; and that if it were, it must belong to Mr. Lensherr, the superior in consequence, to begin the acquaintance. Mr. Cassidy listened to him with the determined air of following his own inclination, and, when he ceased speaking, replied thus:

“My dear Mr. Charles, I have the highest opinion in the world in your excellent judgement in all matters within the scope of your understanding; but permit me to say, that there must be a wide difference between the established forms of ceremony amongst the laity, and those which regulate the clergy; for, give me leave to observe that I consider the clerical office as equal in point of dignity with the highest rank in the kingdom—provided that a proper humility of behaviour is at the same time maintained. You must therefore allow me to follow the dictates of my conscience on this occasion, which leads me to perform what I look on as a point of duty. Pardon me for neglecting to profit by your advice, which on every other subject shall be my constant guide, though in the case before us I consider myself more fitted by education and habitual study to decide on what is right than a young gentleman like yourself." And with a low bow he left him to attack Mr. Lensherr, whose reception of his advances Charles eagerly watched, and whose astonishment at being so addressed was very evident. His cousin prefaced his speech with a solemn bow and though he could not hear a word of it, he felt as if hearing it all, and saw in the motion of his lips the words “apology”, “Hunsford”, and “Lady Jean de Grey”. It vexed him to see Mr. Cassidy expose himself to such a man. Mr. Lensherr was eyeing him with unrestrained wonder, and when at last Mr. Cassidy allowed him time to speak, replied with an air of distant civility. Mr. Cassidy, however, was not discouraged from speaking again, and Mr. Lensherr's contempt seemed abundantly increasing with the length of his second speech, and at the end of it he only made him a slight bow, and moved another way. Mr. Cassidy then returned to Charles.

“I have no reason, I assure you,” said he, “To be dissatisfied with my reception. Mr. Lensherr seemed much pleased with the attention. He answered me with the utmost civility, and even paid me the compliment of saying that he was so well convinced of Lady Jean's discernment as to be certain she could never bestow a favour unworthily. It was really a very handsome thought. Upon the whole, I am much pleased with him.”

As Charles had no longer any interest of his own to pursue, he turned his attention almost entirely on his sister and Mr. McCoy; and the train of agreeable reflections which his observations gave birth to, made him perhaps almost as happy as Raven. He saw her in idea settled in that very house, in all the felicity which a marriage of true affection could bestow; and he felt capable, under such circumstances, of endeavouring even to like McCoy's two brothers. His mother's thoughts he plainly saw were bent the same way, and he determined not to venture near her, lest he might hear too much. When they sat down to supper, therefore, he considered it a most unlucky perverseness which placed them within one of each other; and deeply was he vexed to find that his mother was talking to that one person (Lady Summers) freely, openly, and of nothing else but her expectation that Raven would soon be married to Mr. McCoy. It was an animating subject, and Mrs. Xavier seemed incapable of fatigue while enumerating the advantages of the match. His being such a charming young man, and so rich, and living but three miles from them, were the first points of self-gratulation; and then it was such a comfort to think how fond the two brothers were of Raven, and to be certain that they must desire the connection as much as she could do. It was, moreover, such a promising thing for her younger children, as Raven's marrying so greatly must throw them in the way of other rich men; and lastly, it was so pleasant at her time of life to be able to consign her single children to the care of their sister, that she might not be obliged to go into company more than she liked. It was necessary to make this circumstance a matter of pleasure, because on such occasions it is the etiquette; but no one was less likely than Mrs. Xavier to find comfort in staying home at any period of her life. She concluded with many good wishes that Lady Summers might soon be equally fortunate, though evidently and triumphantly believing there was no chance of it.

In vain did Charles endeavour to check the rapidity of his mother's words, or persuade her to describe her felicity in a less audible whisper; for, to his inexpressible vexation, he could perceive that the chief of it was overheard by Mr. Lensherr, who sat opposite to them. His mother only scolded him for being nonsensical.

“What is Mr. Lensherr to me, pray, that I should be afraid of him? I am sure we owe him no such particular civility as to be obliged to say nothing  _he_  may not like to hear.”

“For heaven's sake, madam, speak lower. What advantage can it be for you to offend Mr. Lensherr? You will never recommend yourself to his friend by so doing!”

Nothing that he could say, however, had any influence. His mother would talk of her views in the same intelligible tone. Charles blushed and blushed again with shame and vexation. He could not help frequently glancing his eye at Mr. Lensherr, though every glance convinced him of what he dreaded; for though he was not always looking at his mother, he was convinced that his attention was invariably fixed by her. The expression of his face changed gradually from indignant contempt to a composed and steady gravity.

At length, however, Mrs. Xavier had no more to say; and Lady Summers, who had been long yawning at the repetition of delights which she saw no likelihood of sharing, was left to the comforts of cold ham and chicken. Charles now began to revive. But not long was the interval of tranquillity; for, when supper was over, singing was talked of, and he had the mortification of seeing Azazel, after very little entreaty, preparing to oblige the company. By many significant looks and silent entreaties, did he endeavour to prevent such a proof of complaisance, but in vain; Azazel would not understand them; such an opportunity of exhibiting was delightful to him, and he began his song. Charles’ eyes were fixed on him with most painful sensations, and he watched him progress through the several stanzas with an impatience which was very ill rewarded at their close; for Azazel, on receiving, amongst the thanks of the table, the hint of a hope that he might be prevailed on to favour them again, after the pause of half a minute began another. Azazel's powers were by no means fitted for such a display; his voice was weak, and his manner affected. Charles was in agonies. He looked at Raven, to see how she bore it; but Raven was very composedly talking to McCoy. He looked at his two sisters, and saw them making signs of derision at each other, and at Lensherr, who continued, however, imperturbably grave. He looked at his father to entreat his interference, lest Azazel should be singing all night. He took the hint, and when Azazel had finished her second song, said aloud, “That will do extremely well, child. You have delighted us long enough. Let the other young people have time to exhibit.”

Azazel, though pretending not to hear, was somewhat disconcerted; and Charles, sorry for him, and sorry for his father's speech, was afraid his anxiety had done no good. Others of the party were now applied to.

“If I,” said Mr. Cassidy, “Were so fortunate as to be able to sing, I should have great pleasure, I am sure, in obliging the company with an air; for I consider music as a very innocent diversion, and perfectly compatible with the profession of a clergyman. I do not mean, however, to assert that we can be justified in devoting too much of our time to music, for there are certainly other things to be attended to. The rector of a parish has much to do. In the first place, he must make such an agreement for tithes as may be beneficial to himself and not offensive to his patron. He must write his own sermons; and the time that remains will not be too much for his parish duties, and the care and improvement of his dwelling, which he cannot be excused from making as comfortable as possible. And I do not think it of light importance that he should have attentive and conciliatory manners towards everybody, especially towards those to whom he owes his preferment. I cannot acquit him of that duty; nor could I think well of the man who should omit an occasion of testifying his respect towards anybody connected with the family.” And with a bow to Mr. Lensherr, he concluded his speech, which had been spoken so loud as to be heard by half the room. Many stared—many smiled; but no one looked more amused than Mr. Xavier himself, while his wife seriously commended Mr. Cassidy for having spoken so sensibly, and observed in a half-whisper to Lady Summers, that he was a remarkably clever, good kind of young man.

To Charles it appeared that, had his family made an agreement to expose themselves as much as they could during the evening, it would have been impossible for them to play their parts with more spirit or finer success; and happy did he think it for McCoy and his sister that some of the exhibition had escaped his notice, and that his feelings were not of a sort to be much distressed by the folly which he must have witnessed. That his two brothers and Mr. Lensherr, however, should have such an opportunity of ridiculing his relations, was bad enough, and he could not determine whether the silent contempt of the gentleman, or the insolent smiles of the brothers, were more intolerable.

The rest of the evening brought him little amusement. He was teased by Mr. Cassidy, who continued most perseveringly by his side, and though he could not prevail on him to dance with him again, put it out of his power to dance with others. In vain did he entreat him to stand up with somebody else, and offer to introduce him to any young person in the room. He assured Charles, that as to dancing, he was perfectly indifferent to it; that his chief object was by delicate attentions to recommend himself to him and that he should therefore make a point of remaining close to him the whole evening. There was no arguing upon such a project. Charles owed his greatest relief to her friend Mr. Alex, who often joined them, and good-naturedly engaged Mr. Cassidy's conversation to himself.

He was at least free from the offense of Mr. Lensherr's further notice; though often standing within a very short distance of him, quite disengaged, he never came near enough to speak. He felt it to be the probable consequence of his allusions to Mr. Shaw, and rejoiced in it.

The Longbourn party were the last of all the company to depart, and, by a manoeuvre of Mrs. Xavier, had to wait for their carriage a quarter of an hour after everybody else was gone, which gave them time to see how heartily they were wished away by some of the family. Mr _._ _Muñoz_ and his brother scarcely opened their mouths, except to complain of fatigue, and were evidently impatient to have the house to themselves. They repulsed every attempt of Mrs. Xavier at conversation, and by so doing threw a languor over the whole party, which was very little relieved by the long speeches of Mr. Cassidy, who was complimenting Mr. McCoy and his brothers on the elegance of their entertainment, and the hospitality and politeness which had marked their behaviour to their guests. Lensherr said nothing at all. Mr. Xavier, in equal silence, was enjoying the scene. Mr. McCoy and Raven were standing together, a little detached from the rest, and talked only to each other. Charles preserved as steady a silence as either Mr. _Muñoz_ or Mr. Janos; and even Emma was too much fatigued to utter more than the occasional exclamation of “Lord, how tired I am!” accompanied by a violent yawn.

When at length they arose to take leave, Mrs. Xavier was most pressingly civil in her hope of seeing the whole family soon at Longbourn, and addressed herself especially to Mr. McCoy, to assure him how happy he would make them by eating a family dinner with them at any time, without the ceremony of a formal invitation. McCoy was all grateful pleasure, and he readily engaged for taking the earliest opportunity of waiting on her, after his return from London, whither he was obliged to go the next day for a short time.

Mrs. Xavier was perfectly satisfied, and quitted the house under the delightful persuasion that, allowing for the necessary preparations of settlements, new carriages, and wedding clothes, she should undoubtedly see her daughter settled at Netherfield in the course of three or four months. Of having another child married to Mr. Cassidy, she thought with equal certainty, and with considerable, though not equal, pleasure. Charles was the least dear to her of all her children; and though the man and the match were quite good enough for  _her_ , the worth of each was eclipsed by Mr. McCoy and Netherfield.


	7. Volume I: Chapters 19 - 21

**Chapter 19**

The next day opened a new scene at Longbourn. Mr. Cassidy made his declaration in form. Having resolved to do it without loss of time, as his leave of absence extended only to the following Saturday, and having no feelings of diffidence to make it distressing to himself even at the moment, he set about it in a very orderly manner, with all the observances, which he supposed a regular part of the business. On finding Mrs. Xavier, Charles, and one of the younger girls together, soon after breakfast, he addressed the mother in these words:

“May I hope, madam, for your interest with your fair son Charles, when I solicit for the honour of a private audience with him in the course of this morning?”

Before Charles had time for anything but a blush of surprise, Mrs. Xavier answered instantly, “Oh dear!—yes—certainly. I am sure Charlie will be very happy—I am sure he can have no objection. Come, Angel, I want you up stairs." And, gathering her work together, she was hastening away, when Charles called out:

“Dear madam, do not go. I beg you will not go. Mr. Cassidy must excuse me. He can have nothing to say to me that anybody need not hear. I am going away myself.”

“No, no, nonsense, Charlie. I desire you to stay where you are.” And upon Charles's seeming really, with vexed and embarrassed looks, about to escape, she added: “Charlie, I  _insist_  upon your staying and hearing Mr. Cassidy.”

Charles would not oppose such an injunction—and a moment's consideration making him also sensible that it would be wisest to get it over as soon and as quietly as possible, he sat down again and tried to conceal, by incessant employment the feelings which were divided between distress and diversion. Mrs. Xavier and Angel walked off, and as soon as they were gone, Mr. Cassidy began.

“Believe me, my dear Mr. Charles, that your modesty, so far from doing you any disservice, rather adds to your other perfections. You would have been less amiable in my eyes had there  _not_  been this little unwillingness; but allow me to assure you, that I have your respected mother's permission for this address. You can hardly doubt the purport of my discourse, however your natural delicacy may lead you to dissemble; my attentions have been too marked to be mistaken. Almost as soon as I entered the house, I singled you out as the companion of my future life. But before I am run away with by my feelings on this subject, perhaps it would be advisable for me to state my reasons for marrying—and, moreover, for coming into Hertfordshire with the design of selecting a spouse, as I certainly did.”

The idea of Mr. Cassidy, with all his solemn composure, being run away with by his feelings, made Charles so near laughing, that he could not use the short pause he allowed in any attempt to stop him further, and he continued:

“My reasons for marrying are, first, that I think it a right thing for every clergyman in easy circumstances (like myself) to set the example of matrimony in his parish; secondly, that I am convinced that it will add very greatly to my happiness; and thirdly—which perhaps I ought to have mentioned earlier, that it is the particular advice and recommendation of the very noble lady whom I have the honour of calling patroness. Twice has she condescended to give me her opinion (unasked too!) on this subject; and it was but the very Saturday night before I left Hunsford—between our pools at quadrille, while Mrs. Jenkinson was arranging Miss de Grey's footstool, that she said, ‘Mr. Cassidy, you must marry. A clergyman like you must marry. Choose properly, choose a gentleperson for _my_  sake; and for your  _own_ , let them be an active, useful sort of person, not brought up high, but able to make a small income go a good way. This is my advice. Find such a person as soon as you can, bring them to Hunsford, and I will visit them.’ Allow me, by the way, to observe, my fair cousin, that I do not reckon the notice and kindness of Lady Jean de Grey as among the least of the advantages in my power to offer. You will find her manners beyond anything I can describe; and your wit and vivacity, I think, must be acceptable to her, especially when tempered with the silence and respect which her rank will inevitably excite. Thus much for my general intention in favour of matrimony; it remains to be told why my views were directed towards Longbourn instead of my own neighbourhood, where I can assure you there are many amiable young people. But the fact is, that being, as I am, to inherit this estate after the death of your honoured father (who, however, may live many years longer), I could not satisfy myself without resolving to choose a spouse from among his children, that the loss to them might be as little as possible, when the melancholy event takes place—which, however, as I have already said, may not be for several years. This has been my motive, my fair cousin, and I flatter myself it will not sink me in your esteem. And now nothing remains for me but to assure you in the most animated language of the violence of my affection. To fortune I am perfectly indifferent, and shall make no demand of that nature on your father, since I am well aware that it could not be complied with; and that one thousand pounds in the four per cents, which will not be yours till after your mother's decease, is all that you may ever be entitled to. On that head, therefore, I shall be uniformly silent; and you may assure yourself that no ungenerous reproach shall ever pass my lips when we are married.”

It was absolutely necessary to interrupt him now.

“You are too hasty, sir,” he cried. “You forget that I have made no answer. Let me do it without further loss of time. Accept my thanks for the compliment you are paying me. I am very sensible of the honour of your proposals, but it is impossible for me to do otherwise than to decline them.”

“I am not now to learn,” replied Mr. Cassidy, with a formal wave of the hand, “That it is usual with young people to reject the addresses of the man whom they secretly mean to accept, when he first applies for their favour; and that sometimes the refusal is repeated a second, or even a third time. I am therefore by no means discouraged by what you have just said, and shall hope to lead you to the altar ere long.”

“Upon my word, sir,” cried Charles, “Your hope is a rather extraordinary one after my declaration. I do assure you that I am not one of those young people (if such young people there are) who are so daring as to risk their happiness on the chance of being asked a second time. I am perfectly serious in my refusal. You could not make  _me_  happy, and I am convinced that I am the last man in the world who could make you so. Nay, were your friend Lady Jean to know me, I am persuaded she would find me in every respect ill qualified for the situation.”

“Were it certain that Lady Jean would think so,” said Mr. Cassidy very gravely—“But I cannot imagine that her ladyship would at all disapprove of you. And you may be certain when I have the honour of seeing her again, I shall speak in the very highest terms of your modesty, economy, and other amiable qualification.”

“Indeed, Mr. Cassidy, all praise of me will be unnecessary. You must give me leave to judge for myself, and pay me the compliment of believing what I say. I wish you very happy and very rich, and by refusing your hand, do all in my power to prevent your being otherwise. In making me the offer, you must have satisfied the delicacy of your feelings with regard to my family, and may take possession of Longbourn estate whenever it falls, without any self-reproach. This matter may be considered, therefore, as finally settled.” And rising as he thus spoke, he would have quitted the room, had Mr. Cassidy not thus addressed him:

“When I do myself the honour of speaking to you next on the subject, I shall hope to receive a more favourable answer than you have now given me; though I am far from accusing you of cruelty at present, because I know it to be the established custom of country folk to reject a man on the first application, and perhaps you have even now said as much to encourage my suit as would be consistent with the true delicacy of the country character.”

“Really, Mr. Cassidy,” cried Charles with some warmth, “You puzzle me exceedingly. If what I have hitherto said can appear to you in the form of encouragement, I know not how to express my refusal in such a way as to convince you of its being one.”

“You must give me leave to flatter myself, my dear cousin, that your refusal of my addresses is merely words of course. My reasons for believing it are briefly these: It does not appear to me that my hand is unworthy of your acceptance, or that the establishment I can offer would be any other than highly desirable. My situation in life, my connections with the family of de Grey, and my relationship to your own, are circumstances highly in my favour; and you should take it into further consideration, that in spite of your manifold attractions, it is by no means certain that another offer of marriage may ever be made you. Your portion is unhappily so small that it will in all likelihood undo the effects of your loveliness and amiable qualifications. As I must therefore conclude that you are not serious in your rejection of me, I shall choose to attribute it to your wish of increasing my love by suspense, according to the usual practice of elegant country folk.”

“I do assure you, sir, that I have no pretensions whatever to that kind of elegance which consists in tormenting a respectable man. I would rather be paid the compliment of being believed sincere. I thank you again and again for the honour you have done me in your proposals, but to accept them is absolutely impossible. My feelings in every respect forbid it. Can I speak plainer? Do not consider me now as an elegant country man, intending to plague you, but as a rational creature, speaking the truth from her heart.”

“You are uniformly charming!” cried he, with an air of awkward gallantry; “And I am persuaded that when sanctioned by the express authority of both your excellent parents, my proposals will not fail of being acceptable.”

To such perseverance in wilful self-deception Charles would make no reply, and immediately and in silence withdrew; determined, if he persisted in considering his repeated refusals as flattering encouragement, to apply to her father, whose negative might be uttered in such a manner as to be decisive, and whose behaviour at least could not be mistaken for the affectation and coquetry of an elegant country man. Whatever that meant. Not for the first time, Charles wished he was able to another person’s mind, the way he was capable of, to help them understand what he was saying. Unfortunately, he would have to wait for his father’s assistance to get Mr. Cassidy to see the light.

 

* * *

 

**Chapter 20**

Mr. Cassidy was not left long to the silent contemplation of his successful love; for Mrs. Xavier, having dawdled about in the vestibule to watch for the end of the conference, no sooner saw Charles open the door and with quick step pass her towards the staircase, than she entered the breakfast-room, and congratulated both him and herself in warm terms on the happy prospect of their nearer connection. Mr. Cassidy received and returned these felicitations with equal pleasure, and then proceeded to relate the particulars of their interview, with the result of which he trusted he had every reason to be satisfied, since the refusal which his cousin had steadfastly given him would naturally flow from his bashful modesty and the genuine delicacy of his character.

This information, however, startled Mrs. Xavier; she would have been glad to be equally satisfied that her son had meant to encourage him by protesting against his proposals, but she dared not believe it, and could not help saying so.

“But, depend upon it, Mr. Cassidy,” She added, “That Charlie shall be brought to reason. I will speak to him about it directly. He is a very headstrong, foolish boy, and does not know his own interest but I will  _make_  him know it.”

“Pardon me for interrupting you, madam,” cried Mr. Cassidy; “But if he is really headstrong and foolish, I know not whether he would altogether be a very desirable husband to a man in my situation, who naturally looks for happiness in the marriage state. If therefore he actually persists in rejecting my suit, perhaps it were better not to force him into accepting me, because if liable to such defects of temper, he could not contribute much to my felicity.”

“Sir, you quite misunderstand me,” said Mrs. Xavier, alarmed. “Charlie is only headstrong in such matters as these. In everything else he is as good-natured a boy as ever lived. I will go directly to Mr. Xavier, and we shall very soon settle it with him, I am sure.”

She would not give him time to reply, but hurrying instantly to her husband, called out as she entered the library, “Oh! Mr. Xavier, you are wanted immediately; we are all in an uproar. You must come and make Charlie marry Mr. Cassidy, for he vows he will not have him, and if you do not make haste he will change his mind and not have  _him_.”

Mr. Xavier raised his eyes from his book as she entered, and fixed them on her face with a calm unconcern which was not in the least altered by her communication.

“I have not the pleasure of understanding you,” said he, when she had finished her speech. “Of what are you talking?”

“Of Mr. Cassidy and Charlie. Charlie declares she will not have Mr. Cassidy, and Mr. Cassidy begins to say that he will not have Charlie.”

“And what am I to do on the occasion? It seems a hopeless business.”

“Speak to Charlie about it yourself. Tell him that you insist upon him marrying him.”

“Let him be called down. He shall hear my opinion.”

Mrs. Xavier rang the bell, and Mr. Charles was summoned to the library.

“Come here, child,” cried his father as he appeared. “I have sent for you on an affair of importance. I understand that Mr. Cassidy has made you an offer of marriage. Is it true?” Charles replied that it was. “Very well—and this offer of marriage you have refused?”

“I have, sir.”

“Very well. We now come to the point. Your mother insists upon your accepting it. Is it not so, Mrs. Xavier?”

“Yes, or I will never see him again.”

“An unhappy alternative is before you, Charles. From this day you must be a stranger to one of your parents. Your mother will never see you again if you do  _not_  marry Mr. Cassidy, and I will never see you again if you  _do_.”

Charles could not but smile at such a conclusion of such a beginning, but Mrs. Xavier, who had persuaded herself that her husband regarded the affair as she wished, was excessively disappointed.

“What do you mean, Mr. Xavier, in talking this way? You promised me to  _insist_  upon him marrying him.”

“My dear,” replied her husband, “I have two small favours to request. First, that you will allow me the free use of my understanding on the present occasion; and secondly, of my room. I shall be glad to have the library to myself as soon as may be.”

Not yet, however, in spite of her disappointment in her husband, did Mrs. Xavier give up the point. She talked to Charles again and again; coaxed and threatened him by turns. She endeavoured to secure Raven in her interest; but Raven, with all possible mildness, declined interfering; and Charles, sometimes with real earnestness, and sometimes with playful gaiety, replied to her attacks. Though his manner varied, however, his determination never did.

Mr. Cassidy, meanwhile, was meditating in solitude on what had passed. He thought too well of himself to comprehend on what motives his cousin could refuse him; and though his pride was hurt, he suffered in no other way. His regard for Charles was quite imaginary; and the possibility of him deserving his mother's reproach prevented his feeling any regret.

While the family were in this confusion, Alex Summers came to spend the day with them. He was met in the vestibule by Emma, who, flying to her, cried in a half whisper, “I am glad you are come, for there is such fun here! What do you think has happened this morning? Mr. Cassidy has made an offer to Charlie, and he will not have him.”

Alex hardly had time to answer, before they were joined by Angel, who came to tell the same news; and no sooner had they entered the breakfast-room, where Mrs. Xavier was alone, than she likewise began on the subject, calling on Mr. Summers for her compassion, and entreating him to persuade his friend Charlie to comply with the wishes of all her family. “Pray do, my dear Mr. Summers,” she added in a melancholy tone, “For nobody is on my side, nobody takes part with me. I am cruelly used, nobody feels for my poor nerves.”

Alex's reply was spared by the entrance of Raven and Charles.

“Aye, there he comes,” continued Mrs. Xavier, “Looking as unconcerned as may be, and caring no more for us than if we were at York, provided he can have his own way. But I tell you, Mr. Charlie—if you take it into your head to go on refusing every offer of marriage in this way, you will never get a husband at all—and I am sure I do not know who is to maintain you when your father is dead. I shall not be able to keep you—and so I warn you. I have done with you from this very day. I told you in the library, you know, that I should never speak to you again, and you will find me as good as my word. I have no pleasure in talking to undutiful children. Not that I have much pleasure, indeed, in talking to anybody. People who suffer as I do from nervous complaints can have no great inclination for talking. Nobody can tell what I suffer! But it is always so. Those who do not complain are never pitied.”

Her children listened in silence to this effusion, sensible that any attempt to reason with her or soothe her would only increase the irritation. She talked on, therefore, without interruption from any of them, till they were joined by Mr. Cassidy, who entered the room with an air more stately than usual, and on perceiving whom, she said to the children, “Now, I do insist upon it, that you, all of you, hold your tongues, and let me and Mr. Cassidy have a little conversation together.”

Charles passed quietly out of the room, Raven and Angel followed, but Emma stood her ground, determined to hear all she could; and Alex, detained first by the civility of Mr. Cassidy, whose inquiries after himself and all his family were very minute, and then by a little curiosity, satisfied himself with walking to the window and pretending not to hear. In a doleful voice Mrs. Xavier began the projected conversation: “Oh! Mr. Cassidy!”

“My dear madam,” replied he, “Let us be for ever silent on this point. Far be it from me,” he presently continued, in a voice that marked his displeasure, “To resent the behaviour of your son. Resignation to inevitable evils is the duty of us all; the peculiar duty of a young man who has been so fortunate as I have been in early preferment; and I trust I am resigned. Perhaps not the less so from feeling a doubt of my positive happiness had my fair cousin honoured me with his hand; for I have often observed that resignation is never so perfect as when the blessing denied begins to lose somewhat of its value in our estimation. You will not, I hope, consider me as showing any disrespect to your family, my dear madam, by thus withdrawing my pretensions to your son's favour, without having paid yourself and Mr. Xavier the compliment of requesting you to interpose your authority in my behalf. My conduct may, I fear, be objectionable in having accepted my dismission from your son's lips instead of your own. But we are all liable to error. I have certainly meant well through the whole affair. My object has been to secure an amiable companion for myself, with due consideration for the advantage of all your family, and if my  _manner_  has been at all reprehensible, I here beg leave to apologise.”

 

* * *

 

**Chapter 21**

The discussion of Mr. Cassidy's offer was now nearly at an end, and Charles had only to suffer from the uncomfortable feelings necessarily attending it, and occasionally from some peevish allusions of his mother. As for the gentleman himself,  _his_  feelings were chiefly expressed, not by embarrassment or dejection, or by trying to avoid him, but by stiffness of manner and resentful silence. He scarcely ever spoke to him, and the assiduous attentions which he had been so sensible of himself were transferred for the rest of the day to Mr. Summers, whose civility in listening to him was a seasonable relief to them all, and especially to his friend.

The morrow produced no abatement of Mrs. Xavier's ill-humour or ill health. Mr. Cassidy was also in the same state of angry pride. Charles had hoped that his resentment might shorten his visit, but his plan did not appear in the least affected by it. He was always to have gone on Saturday, and to Saturday he meant to stay.

After breakfast, the girls walked to Meryton to inquire if Mr. Shaw were returned, and to lament over his absence from the Netherfield ball. He joined them on their entering the town, and attended them to their aunt's where his regret and vexation, and the concern of everybody, was well talked over. To Charles, however, he voluntarily acknowledged that the necessity of his absence  _had_  been self-imposed.

“I found,” said he, “As the time drew near that I had better not meet Mr. Lensherr; that to be in the same room, the same party with him for so many hours together, might be more than I could bear, and that scenes might arise unpleasant to more than myself.”

He highly approved his forbearance, and they had leisure for a full discussion of it, and for all the commendation which they civilly bestowed on each other, as Shaw and another officer walked back with them to Longbourn, and during the walk he particularly attended to him. His accompanying them was a double advantage; Charles felt all the compliment it offered to himself, and it was most acceptable as an occasion of introducing him to his father and mother.

Soon after their return, a letter was delivered to Miss Xavier; it came from Netherfield. The envelope contained a sheet of elegant, little, hot-pressed paper, well covered with a fair, flowing hand; and Charles saw his sister's countenance change as she read it, and saw her dwelling intently on some particular passages. Raven recollected herself soon, and putting the letter away, tried to join with her usual cheerfulness in the general conversation; but Charles felt an anxiety on the subject which drew off her attention even from Shaw; and no sooner had he and his companion taken leave, than a glance from Raven invited him to follow her up stairs. When they had gained their own room, Raven, taking out the letter, said:

“This is from Janos McCoy; what it contains has surprised me a good deal. The whole party have left Netherfield by this time, and are on their way to town—and without any intention of coming back again. You shall hear what she says.”

She then read the first sentence aloud, which comprised the information of their having just resolved to follow their brother to town directly, and of their meaning to dine in Grosvenor Street, where Mrs. Muñoz had a house. The next was in these words: _“I do not pretend to regret anything I shall leave in Hertfordshire, except your society, my dearest friend; but we will hope, at some future period, to enjoy many returns of that delightful intercourse we have known, and in the meanwhile may lessen the pain of separation by a very frequent and most unreserved correspondence. I depend on you for that.”_ To these highflown expressions Charles listened with all the insensibility of distrust; and though the suddenness of their removal surprised him, he saw nothing in it really to lament; it was not to be supposed that their absence from Netherfield would prevent Mr. McCoy's being there; and as to the loss of their society, he was persuaded that Raven must cease to regard it, in the enjoyment of his.

“It is unlucky,” said she, after a short pause, “That you should not be able to see your friends before they leave the country. But may we not hope that the period of future happiness to which Mr. McCoy looks forward may arrive earlier than he is aware, and that the delightful intercourse you have known as friends will be renewed with yet greater satisfaction as sisters? Mr. McCoy will not be detained in London by them.”

“Janos decidedly says that none of the party will return into Hertfordshire this winter. I will read it to you:”

_“When my brother left us yesterday, he imagined that the business which took him to London might be concluded in three or four days; but as we are certain it cannot be so, and at the same time convinced that when Hank gets to town he will be in no hurry to leave it again, we have determined on following him thither, that he may not be obliged to spend his vacant hours in a comfortless hotel. Many of my acquaintances are already there for the winter; I wish that I could hear that you, my dearest friend, had any intention of making one of the crowd—but of that I despair. I sincerely hope your Christmas in Hertfordshire may abound in the gaieties which that season generally brings, and that your beaux will be so numerous as to prevent your feeling the loss of the three of whom we shall deprive you.”_

“It is evident by this,” added Raven, “That he comes back no more this winter.”

“It is only evident that Mr. McCoy does not mean that he  _should_.”

“Why will you think so? It must be his own doing. He is his own master. But you do not know  _all_. I  _will_  read you the passage which particularly hurts me. I will have no reserves from  _you_.”

_“Mr. Lensherr is impatient to see his sister; and, to confess the truth, we are scarcely less eager to meet her again. I really do not think Moira Lensherr has her equal for beauty, elegance, and accomplishments; and the affection she inspires in Armando and myself is heightened into something still more interesting, from the hope we dare entertain of her being hereafter our sister. I do not know whether I ever before mentioned to you my feelings on this subject; but I will not leave the country without confiding them, and I trust you will not esteem them unreasonable. My brother admires her greatly already; he will have frequent opportunity now of seeing her on the most intimate footing; her relations all wish the connection as much as his own; and a brother's partiality is not misleading me, I think, when I call Hank most capable of engaging any woman's heart. With all these circumstances to favour an attachment, and nothing to prevent it, am I wrong, my dearest Raven, in indulging the hope of an event which will secure the happiness of so many?”_

“What do you think of  _this_  sentence, my dear Charlie?” said Raven as she finished it. “Is it not clear enough? Does it not expressly declare that Janos neither expects nor wishes me to be his sister; that he is perfectly convinced of his brother's indifference; and that if he suspects the nature of my feelings for him, he means (most kindly!) to put me on my guard? Can there be any other opinion on the subject?”

“Yes, there can; for mine is totally different. Will you hear it?”

“Most willingly.”

You shall have it in a few words. Mr. McCoy sees that his brother is in love with you, and wants him to marry Miss Lensherr. He follows him to town in hope of keeping him there, and tries to persuade you that he does not care about you.”

Raven shook her head.

“Indeed, Raven, you ought to believe me. No one who has ever seen you together can doubt his affection. Mr. McCoy, I am sure, cannot. He is not such a simpleton. Could he have seen half as much love in Mr. Lensherr for himself, he would have ordered his wedding clothes. But the case is this: We are not rich enough or grand enough for them; and he is the more anxious to get Miss Lensherr for his brother, from the notion that when there has been  _one_  intermarriage, he may have less trouble in achieving a second; in which there is certainly some ingenuity, and I dare say it would succeed, if Miss de Grey were out of the way. But, my dearest Raven, you cannot seriously imagine that because Mr. McCoy tells you his brother greatly admires Miss Lensherr, he is in the smallest degree less sensible of  _your_  merit than when he took leave of you on Tuesday, or that it will be in his power to persuade him that, instead of being in love with you, he is very much in love with his friend.”

“If we thought alike of Mr. McCoy,” replied Raven, “Your representation of all this might make me quite easy. But I know the foundation is unjust. Janos is incapable of wilfully deceiving anyone; and all that I can hope in this case is that he is deceiving herself.”

“That is right. You could not have started a more happy idea, since you will not take comfort in mine. Believe him to be deceived, by all means. You have now done your duty by him, and must fret no longer.”

“But, my dear brother, can I be happy, even supposing the best, in accepting a man whose brothers and friends are all wishing him to marry elsewhere?”

“You must decide for yourself,” said Charles; “And if, upon mature deliberation, you find that the misery of disobliging his two brothers is more than equivalent to the happiness of being his wife, I advise you by all means to refuse him.”

“How can you talk so?” said Raven, faintly smiling. “You must know that though I should be exceedingly grieved at their disapprobation, I could not hesitate.”

“I did not think you would; and that being the case, I cannot consider your situation with much compassion.”

“But if he returns no more this winter, my choice will never be required. A thousand things may arise in six months!”

The idea of his returning no more Charles treated with the utmost contempt. It appeared to him merely the suggestion of Janos's interested wishes, and he could not for a moment suppose that those wishes, however openly or artfully spoken, could influence a young man so totally independent of everyone.

He represented to his sister as forcibly as possible what he felt on the subject, and had soon the pleasure of seeing its happy effect. Raven's temper was not desponding, and she was gradually led to hope, though the diffidence of affection sometimes overcame the hope, that McCoy would return to Netherfield and answer every wish of her heart.

They agreed that Mrs. Xavier should only hear of the departure of the family, without being alarmed on the score of the gentleman's conduct; but even this partial communication gave her a great deal of concern, and she bewailed it as exceedingly unlucky that they all should happen to go away just as they were all getting so intimate together. After lamenting it, however, at some length, she had the consolation that Mr. McCoy would be soon down again and soon dining at Longbourn, and the conclusion of all was the comfortable declaration, that though he had been invited only to a family dinner, she would take care to have two full courses.


	8. Volume I: Chapters 22 - 23

**Chapter 22**

The Xaviers were engaged to dine with the Summerses and again during the chief of the day was Mr. Summers so kind as to listen to Mr. Cassidy. Charles took an opportunity of thanking him. “It keeps him in good humour,” said he, “And I am more obliged to you than I can express." Alex assured his friend of his satisfaction in being useful, and that it amply repaid him for the little sacrifice of his time. This was very amiable, but Alex's kindness extended farther than Charles had any conception of; its object was nothing else than to secure him from any return of Mr. Cassidy's addresses, by engaging them towards himself. Such was Mr. Summers' scheme; and appearances were so favourable, that when they parted at night, he would have felt almost secure of success if he had not been to leave Hertfordshire so very soon. But here he did injustice to the fire and independence of his character, for it led him to escape out of Longbourn House the next morning with admirable slyness, and hasten to Lucas Lodge to throw himself at his feet. He was anxious to avoid the notice of his cousins, from a conviction that if they saw him depart, they could not fail to conjecture his design, and he was not willing to have the attempt known till its success might be known likewise; for though feeling almost secure, and with reason, for Alex had been tolerably encouraging, he was comparatively diffident since the adventure of Wednesday. His reception, however, was of the most flattering kind. Mr. Summers perceived him from an upper window as he walked towards the house, and instantly set out to meet him accidentally in the lane. But little had he dared to hope that so much love and eloquence awaited her there.

In as short a time as Mr. Cassidy's long speeches would allow, everything was settled between them to the satisfaction of both; and as they entered the house he earnestly entreated him to name the day that was to make him the happiest of men; and though such a solicitation must be waived for the present, the man felt no inclination to trifle with his happiness. The stupidity with which he was favoured by nature must guard his courtship from any charm that could make a man wish for its continuance; and Mr. Summers, who accepted him solely from the pure and disinterested desire of an establishment, cared not how soon that establishment were gained.

Sir Christopher and Lady Summers were speedily applied to for their consent; and it was bestowed with a most joyful alacrity. Mr. Cassidy's present circumstances made it a most eligible match for their son, to whom they could give little fortune; and his prospects of future wealth were exceedingly fair. Lady Summers began directly to calculate, with more interest than the matter had ever excited before, how many years longer Mr. Xavier was likely to live; and Sir Christopher gave it as his decided opinion, that whenever Mr. Cassidy should be in possession of the Longbourn estate, it would be highly expedient that both he and his husband should make their appearance at St. James's. The whole family, in short, were properly overjoyed on the occasion. The younger girls formed hopes of  _coming out_  a year or two sooner than they might otherwise have done; and the boys were relieved from their apprehension of Alex's dying an old man. Alex himself was tolerably composed. He had gained his point, and had time to consider of it. His reflections were in general satisfactory. Mr. Cassidy, to be sure, was neither sensible nor agreeable; his society was irksome, and his attachment to him must be imaginary. But still he would be his husband. Without thinking highly either of men or matrimony, marriage had always been his object; it was the only provision for well-educated young people of small fortune, and however uncertain of giving happiness, must be their pleasantest preservative from want. This preservative he had now obtained; and at the age of twenty-seven, without having ever been handsome, he felt all the good luck of it. The least agreeable circumstance in the business was the surprise it must occasion to Charles Xavier, whose friendship she valued beyond that of any other person. Charles would wonder, and probably would blame him; and though his resolution was not to be shaken, his feelings must be hurt by such a disapprobation. Alex resolved to give him the information himself, and therefore charged Mr. Cassidy, when he returned to Longbourn to dinner, to drop no hint of what had passed before any of the family. A promise of secrecy was of course very dutifully given, but it could not be kept without difficulty; for the curiosity excited by his long absence burst forth in such very direct questions on his return as required some ingenuity to evade, and he was at the same time exercising great self-denial, for he was longing to publish his prosperous love.

As he was to begin his journey too early on the morrow to see any of the family, the ceremony of leave-taking was performed when the family moved for the night; and Mrs. Xavier, with great politeness and cordiality, said how happy they should be to see him at Longbourn again, whenever his engagements might allow him to visit them.

“My dear madam,” He replied, “This invitation is particularly gratifying, because it is what I have been hoping to receive; and you may be very certain that I shall avail myself of it as soon as possible.”

They were all astonished; and Mr. Xavier, who could by no means wish for so speedy a return, immediately said:

“But is there not danger of Lady Jean's disapprobation here, my good sir? You had better neglect your relations than run the risk of offending your patroness.”

“My dear sir,” replied Mr. Cassidy, “I am particularly obliged to you for this friendly caution, and you may depend upon my not taking so material a step without her ladyship's concurrence.”

“You cannot be too much upon your guard. Risk anything rather than her displeasure; and if you find it likely to be raised by your coming to us again, which I should think exceedingly probable, stay quietly at home, and be satisfied that  _we_  shall take no offence.”

“Believe me, my dear sir, my gratitude is warmly excited by such affectionate attention; and depend upon it, you will speedily receive from me a letter of thanks for this, and for every other mark of your regard during my stay in Hertfordshire. As for my fair cousins, though my absence may not be long enough to render it necessary, I shall now take the liberty of wishing them health and happiness, not excepting my cousin Charles.”

With proper civilities the ladies then withdrew; all of them equally surprised that he meditated a quick return. Mrs. Xavier wished to understand by it that he thought of paying his addresses to one of her younger children, and Azazel might have been prevailed on to accept him. He rated his abilities much higher than any of the others; there was a solidity in his reflections which often struck him, and though by no means so clever as himself, he thought that if encouraged to read and improve himself by such an example as his, he might become a very agreeable companion. But on the following morning, every hope of this kind was done away. Mr. Summers called soon after breakfast, and in a private conference with Charles related the event of the day before.

The possibility of Mr. Cassidy's fancying himself in love with his friend had once occurred to Charles within the last day or two; but that Alex could encourage him seemed almost as far from possibility as he could encourage him himself, and his astonishment was consequently so great as to overcome at first the bounds of decorum, and she could not help crying out:

“Engaged to Mr. Cassidy! My dear Alex—impossible!”

The steady countenance which Mr. Summers had commanded in telling her story, gave way to a momentary confusion here on receiving so direct a reproach; though, as it was no more than he expected, he soon regained her composure, and calmly replied:

“Why should you be surprised, my dear Charles? Do you think it incredible that Mr. Cassidy should be able to procure any one's good opinion, because he was not so happy as to succeed with you?”

But Charles had now recollected himself, and making a strong effort for it, was able to assure with tolerable firmness that the prospect of their relationship was highly grateful to him, and that he wished her all imaginable happiness.

“I see what you are feeling,” replied Alex. “You must be surprised, very much surprised—so lately as Mr. Cassidy was wishing to marry you. But when you have had time to think it over, I hope you will be satisfied with what I have done. I am not romantic, you know; I never was. I ask only a comfortable home; and considering Mr. Cassidy's character, connection, and situation in life, I am convinced that my chance of happiness with him is as fair as most people can boast on entering the marriage state.”

Charles quietly answered “Undoubtedly”; and after an awkward pause, they returned to the rest of the family. Alex did not stay much longer, and Charles was then left to reflect on what he had heard. It was a long time before he became at all reconciled to the idea of so unsuitable a match. The strangeness of Mr. Cassidy's making two offers of marriage within three days was nothing in comparison of his being now accepted. He had always felt that Alex's opinion of matrimony was not exactly like his own, but he had not supposed it to be possible that, when called into action, he would have sacrificed every better feeling to worldly advantage. Alex the husband of Mr. Cassidy was a most humiliating picture! And to the pang of a friend disgracing himself and sunk in her esteem, was added the distressing conviction that it was impossible for that friend to be tolerably happy in the lot he had chosen.

 

* * *

 

**Chapter 23**

Charles was sitting with his mother and siblings, reflecting on what he had heard, and doubting whether he was authorised to mention it, when Sir Christopher Summers himself appeared, sent by his son, to announce his engagement to the family. With many compliments to them, and much self-gratulation on the prospect of a connection between the houses, he unfolded the matter—to an audience not merely wondering, but incredulous; for Mrs. Xavier, with more perseverance than politeness, protested he must be entirely mistaken; and Emma, always unguarded and often uncivil, boisterously exclaimed:

“Good Lord! Sir Christopher, how can you tell such a story? Do not you know that Mr. Cassidy wants to marry Charlie?”

Nothing less than the complaisance of a courtier could have borne without anger such treatment; but Sir Christopher's good breeding carried him through it all; and though he begged leave to be positive as to the truth of his information, he listened to all their impertinence with the most forbearing courtesy.

Charles, feeling it incumbent on him to relieve him from so unpleasant a situation, now put himself forward to confirm his account, by mentioning his prior knowledge of it from Alex himself; and endeavoured to put a stop to the exclamations of his mother and siblings by the earnestness of his congratulations to Sir Christopher, in which he was readily joined by Raven, and by making a variety of remarks on the happiness that might be expected from the match, the excellent character of Mr. Cassidy, and the convenient distance of Hunsford from London.

Mrs. Xavier was in fact too much overpowered to say a great deal while Sir Christopher remained; but no sooner had he left them than her feelings found a rapid vent. In the first place, she persisted in disbelieving the whole of the matter; secondly, she was very sure that Mr. Cassidy had been taken in; thirdly, she trusted that they would never be happy together; and fourthly, that the match might be broken off. Two inferences, however, were plainly deduced from the whole: one, that Charles was the real cause of the mischief; and the other that she herself had been barbarously misused by them all; and on these two points she principally dwelt during the rest of the day. Nothing could console and nothing could appease her. Nor did that day wear out her resentment. A week elapsed before she could see Charles without scolding him, a month passed away before she could speak to Sir Christopher or Lady Summers without being rude, and many months were gone before she could at all forgive their son.

Mr. Xavier's emotions were much more tranquil on the occasion, and such as he did experience he pronounced to be of a most agreeable sort; for it gratified him, he said, to discover that Alex Summers, whom he had been used to think tolerably sensible, was as foolish as his wife, and more foolish than his son!

Raven confessed herself a little surprised at the match; but she said less of her astonishment than of her earnest desire for their happiness; nor could Charles persuade her to consider it as improbable. Angel and Emma were far from envying Miss Summers, for Mr. Cassidy was only a clergyman; and it affected them in no other way than as a piece of news to spread at Meryton.

Lady Summers could not be insensible of triumph on being able to retort on Mrs. Xavier the comfort of having a child well married; and she called at Longbourn rather oftener than usual to say how happy she was, though Mrs. Xavier's sour looks and ill-natured remarks might have been enough to drive happiness away.

Between Charles and Alex there was a restraint which kept them mutually silent on the subject; and Charles felt persuaded that no real confidence could ever subsist between them again. His disappointment in Alex made him turn with fonder regard to his sister, of whose rectitude and delicacy he was sure his opinion could never be shaken, and for whose happiness he grew daily more anxious, as McCoy had now been gone a week and nothing more was heard of his return.

Raven had sent Janos an early answer to his letter, and was counting the days till she might reasonably hope to hear again. The promised letter of thanks from Mr. Cassidy arrived on Tuesday, addressed to their father, and written with all the solemnity of gratitude which a twelvemonth's abode in the family might have prompted. After discharging his conscience on that head, he proceeded to inform them, with many rapturous expressions, of his happiness in having obtained the affection of their amiable neighbour, Mr. Summers, and then explained that it was merely with the view of enjoying his society that he had been so ready to close with their kind wish of seeing him again at Longbourn, whither he hoped to be able to return on Monday fortnight; for Lady Jean, he added, so heartily approved his marriage, that she wished it to take place as soon as possible, which he trusted would be an unanswerable argument with his amiable Alex to name an early day for making him the happiest of men.

Mr. Cassidy's return into Hertfordshire was no longer a matter of pleasure to Mrs. Xavier. On the contrary, she was as much disposed to complain of it as her husband. It was very strange that he should come to Longbourn instead of to Lucas Lodge; it was also very inconvenient and exceedingly troublesome. She hated having visitors in the house while her health was so indifferent, and lovers were of all people the most disagreeable. Such were the gentle murmurs of Mrs. Xavier, and they gave way only to the greater distress of Mr. McCoy's continued absence.

Neither Raven nor Charles were comfortable on this subject. Day after day passed away without bringing any other tidings of him than the report which shortly prevailed in Meryton of his coming no more to Netherfield the whole winter; a report which highly incensed Mrs. Xavier, and which she never failed to contradict as a most scandalous falsehood.

Even Charles began to fear—not that McCoy was indifferent—but that his brothers would be successful in keeping him away. Unwilling as he was to admit an idea so destructive of Raven's happiness, and so dishonorable to the stability of her lover, he could not prevent its frequently occurring. The united efforts of his two unfeeling brothers and of his overpowering friend, assisted by the attractions of Miss Lensherr and the amusements of London might be too much, he feared, for the strength of his attachment.

As for Raven,  _her_  anxiety under this suspense was, of course, more painful than Charles's, but whatever she felt she was desirous of concealing, and between herself and Charles, therefore, the subject was never alluded to. But as no such delicacy restrained her mother, an hour seldom passed in which she did not talk of McCoy, express her impatience for his arrival, or even require Raven to confess that if he did not come back she would think herself very ill used. It needed all Raven's steady mildness to bear these attacks with tolerable tranquillity.

Mr. Cassidy returned most punctually on Monday fortnight, but his reception at Longbourn was not quite so gracious as it had been on his first introduction. He was too happy, however, to need much attention; and luckily for the others, the business of love-making relieved them from a great deal of his company. The chief of every day was spent by him at Lucas Lodge, and he sometimes returned to Longbourn only in time to make an apology for his absence before the family went to bed.

Mrs. Xavier was really in a most pitiable state. The very mention of anything concerning the match threw her into an agony of ill-humour, and wherever she went she was sure of hearing it talked of. The sight of Mr. Summers was odious to her. As her successor in that house, she regarded him with jealous abhorrence. Whenever Alex came to see them, she concluded him to be anticipating the hour of possession; and whenever he spoke in a low voice to Mr. Cassidy, was convinced that they were talking of the Longbourn estate, and resolving to turn herself and her daughters out of the house, as soon as Mr. Xavier were dead. She complained bitterly of all this to her husband.

“Indeed, Mr. Xavier,” said she, “It is very hard to think that Alex Summers should ever be master of this house, that I should be forced to make way for  _her_ , and live to see her take her place in it!”

“My dear, do not give way to such gloomy thoughts. Let us hope for better things. Let us flatter ourselves that I may be the survivor.”

This was not very consoling to Mrs. Xavier, and therefore, instead of making any answer, she went on as before.

“I cannot bear to think that they should have all this estate. If it was not for the entail, I should not mind it.”

“What should not you mind?”

“I should not mind anything at all.”

“Let us be thankful that you are preserved from a state of such insensibility.”

“I never can be thankful, Mr. Xavier, for anything about the entail. How anyone could have the conscience to entail away an estate from one's own children, I cannot understand; and all for the sake of Mr. Cassidy too! Why should  _he_  have it more than anybody else?”

“I leave it to yourself to determine,” said Mr. Xavier.

**END VOLUME I**


	9. Volume II: Chapters 1 - 3

**VOLUME II**

**Chapter 1**

Mr. McCoy's letter arrived, and put an end to doubt. The very first sentence conveyed the assurance of their being all settled in London for the winter, and concluded with his brother's regret at not having had time to pay his respects to his friends in Hertfordshire before he left the country.

Hope was over, entirely over; and when Raven could attend to the rest of the letter, she found little, except the professed affection of the writer, that could give her any comfort. Miss Lensherr's praise occupied the chief of it. Her many attractions were again dwelt on, and Janos boasted joyfully of their increasing intimacy, and ventured to predict the accomplishment of the wishes which had been unfolded in his former letter. He wrote also with great pleasure of his brother's being an inmate of Mr. Lensherr's house, and mentioned with raptures some plans of the latter with regard to new furniture.

Charles, to whom Raven very soon communicated the chief of all this, heard it in silent indignation. His heart was divided between concern for his sister, and resentment against all others. To Janos's assertion of his brother's being partial to Miss Lensherr he paid no credit. That he was really fond of Raven, he doubted no more than he had ever done; and much as he had always been disposed to like him, he could not think without anger, hardly without contempt, on that easiness of temper, that want of proper resolution, which now made him the slave of his designing friends, and led him to sacrifice of his own happiness to the caprice of their inclination. Had his own happiness, however, been the only sacrifice, he might have been allowed to sport with it in whatever manner he thought best, but Charles’ sister's was involved in it, as he thought he must be sensible himself. It was a subject, in short, on which reflection would be long indulged, and must be unavailing. He could think of nothing else; and yet whether McCoy's regard had really died away, or were suppressed by his friends' interference; whether he had been aware of Raven's attachment, or whether it had escaped his observation; whatever were the case, though his opinion of him must be materially affected by the difference, his sister's situation remained the same, her peace equally wounded.

A day or two passed before Raven had courage to speak of her feelings to Charles; but at last, on Mrs. Xavier's leaving them together, after a longer irritation than usual about Netherfield and its master, she could not help saying:

“Oh, that my dear mother had more command over herself! She can have no idea of the pain she gives me by her continual reflections on him. But I will not repine. It cannot last long. He will be forgot, and we shall all be as we were before.”

Charles looked at his sister with incredulous solicitude, but said nothing.

“You doubt me,” cried Raven, slightly colouring; “Indeed, you have no reason. He may live in my memory as the most amiable man of my acquaintance, but that is all. I have nothing either to hope or fear, and nothing to reproach him with. Thank God! I have not _that_  pain. A little time, therefore—I shall certainly try to get the better.”

With a stronger voice she soon added, “I have this comfort immediately, that it has not been more than an error of fancy on my side, and that it has done no harm to anyone but myself.”

“My dear Raven!” exclaimed Charles, “You are too good. Your sweetness and disinterestedness are really angelic; I do not know what to say to you. I feel as if I had never done you justice, or loved you as you deserve.”

Miss Xavier eagerly disclaimed all extraordinary merit, and threw back the praise on her brother's warm affection.

“Nay,” said Charles, “This is not fair.  _You_  wish to think all the world respectable, and are hurt if I speak ill of anybody. I only want to think  _you_  perfect, and you set yourself against it. Do not be afraid of my running into any excess, of my encroaching on your privilege of universal good-will. You need not. There are few people whom I really love, and still fewer of whom I think well. The more I see of the world, the more am I dissatisfied with it; and every day confirms my belief of the inconsistency of all human characters, and of the little dependence that can be placed on the appearance of merit or sense. I have met with two instances lately, one I will not mention; the other is Alex's marriage. It is unaccountable! In every view it is unaccountable!”

“My dear Charlie, do not give way to such feelings as these. They will ruin your happiness. You do not make allowance enough for difference of situation and temper. Consider Mr. Cassidy's respectability, and Alex's steady, prudent character. Remember that he is one of a large family; that as to fortune, it is a most eligible match; and be ready to believe, for everybody's sake, that he may feel something like regard and esteem for our cousin.”

“To oblige you, I would try to believe almost anything, but no one else could be benefited by such a belief as this; for were I persuaded that Alex had any regard for him, I should only think worse of his understanding than I now do of his heart. My dear Raven, Mr. Cassidy is a conceited, pompous, narrow-minded, silly man; you know he is, as well as I do; and you must feel, as well as I do, that the man who married him cannot have a proper way of thinking. You shall not defend him, though it is Alex Summers. You shall not, for the sake of one individual, change the meaning of principle and integrity, nor endeavour to persuade yourself or me, that selfishness is prudence, and insensibility of danger security for happiness.”

“I must think your language too strong in speaking of both,” replied Raven; “And I hope you will be convinced of it by seeing them happy together. But enough of this. You alluded to something else. You mentioned  _two_  instances. I cannot misunderstand you, but I entreat you, dear Charlie, not to pain me by thinking  _that person_  to blame, and saying your opinion of him is sunk. We must not be so ready to fancy ourselves intentionally injured. We must not expect a lively young man to be always so guarded and circumspect. It is very often nothing but our own vanity that deceives us. People fancy admiration means more than it does.”

“And men take care that they should.”

“If it is designedly done, they cannot be justified; but I have no idea of there being so much design in the world as some persons imagine.”

“I am far from attributing any part of Mr. McCoy's conduct to design," said Charles; "but without scheming to do wrong, or to make others unhappy, there may be error, and there may be misery. Thoughtlessness, want of attention to other people's feelings, and want of resolution, will do the business.”

“And do you impute it to either of those?”

“Yes; to the last. But if I go on, I shall displease you by saying what I think of persons you esteem. Stop me whilst you can.”

“You persist, then, in supposing his brothers influence him?”

Yes, in conjunction with his friend.”

“I cannot believe it. Why should they try to influence him? They can only wish his happiness; and if he is attached to me, no other woman can secure it.”

“Your first position is false. They may wish many things besides his happiness; they may wish his increase of wealth and consequence; they may wish him to marry a girl who has all the importance of money, great connections, and pride.”

“Beyond a doubt, they  _do_  wish him to choose Miss Lensherr,” replied Raven; “But this may be from better feelings than you are supposing. They have known her much longer than they have known me; no wonder if they love her better. But, whatever may be their own wishes, it is very unlikely they should have opposed their brother's. What brother would think himself at liberty to do it, unless there were something very objectionable? If they believed him attached to me, they would not try to part us; if he were so, they could not succeed. By supposing such an affection, you make everybody acting unnaturally and wrong, and me most unhappy. Do not distress me by the idea. I am not ashamed of having been mistaken—or, at least, it is light, it is nothing in comparison of what I should feel in thinking ill of him or his brothers. Let me take it in the best light, in the light in which it may be understood.”

Charles could not oppose such a wish; and from this time Mr. McCoy's name was scarcely ever mentioned between them.

Mrs. Xavier still continued to wonder and repine at his returning no more, and though a day seldom passed in which Charles did not account for it clearly, there was little chance of her ever considering it with less perplexity. Her son endeavoured to convince her of what she did not believe herself, that his attentions to Raven had been merely the effect of a common and transient liking, which ceased when he saw her no more; but though the probability of the statement was admitted at the time, she had the same story to repeat every day. Mrs. Xavier's best comfort was that Mr. McCoy must be down again in the summer.

Mr. Xavier treated the matter differently. “So, Charlie,” said he one day, “Your sister is crossed in love, I find. I congratulate her. Next to being married, a girl likes to be crossed a little in love now and then. It is something to think of, and it gives her a sort of distinction among her companions. When is your turn to come? You will hardly bear to be long outdone by Raven. Now is your time. Here are officers enough in Meryton to disappoint all the young people in the country. Let Shaw be  _your_  man. He is a pleasant fellow, and would jilt you creditably.”

“Thank you, sir, but a less agreeable man would satisfy me. We must not all expect Raven's good fortune.”

“True,” said Mr. Xavier, “But it is a comfort to think that whatever of that kind may befall you, you have an affectionate mother who will make the most of it.”

Mr. Shaw's society was of material service in dispelling the gloom which the late perverse occurrences had thrown on many of the Longbourn family. They saw him often, and to his other recommendations was now added that of general unreserve. The whole of what Charles had already heard, his claims on Mr. Lensherr, and all that he had suffered from him, was now openly acknowledged and publicly canvassed; and everybody was pleased to know how much they had always disliked Mr. Lensherr before they had known anything of the matter.

Miss Xavier was the only creature who could suppose there might be any extenuating circumstances in the case, unknown to the society of Hertfordshire; her mild and steady candour always pleaded for allowances, and urged the possibility of mistakes—but by everybody else Mr. Lensherr was condemned as the worst of men.

 

* * *

 

**Chapter 2**

After a week spent in professions of love and schemes of felicity, Mr. Cassidy was called from his amiable Alex by the arrival of Saturday. The pain of separation, however, might be alleviated on his side, by preparations for the reception of his groom; as he had reason to hope, that shortly after his return into Hertfordshire, the day would be fixed that was to make him the happiest of men. He took leave of his relations at Longbourn with as much solemnity as before; wished his fair cousins health and happiness again, and promised their father another letter of thanks.

On the following Monday, Mrs. Xavier had the pleasure of receiving her brother and his husband, who came as usual to spend the Christmas at Longbourn. Mr. Logan Howlett was a sensible, gentlemanlike man, greatly superior to his sister, as well by nature as education. The Netherfield ladies would have had difficulty in believing that a man who lived by trade, and within view of his own warehouses, could have been so well-bred and agreeable. Mr. Remy Howlett, who was several years younger than Mrs. Xavier and Mrs. Munroe, was an amiable, intelligent, elegant Frenchman, and a great favourite with all his Longbourn nieces and nephews. Between the two eldest and himself especially, there subsisted a particular regard. They had frequently been staying with him in town.

The family was well-aware of the powers that both Mr.’s Howlett had. Mr. Logan could heal any injury to himself and had long claws between his knuckles that he could retract whenever he wanted. Mr. Remy, on the other hand, could mentally create, control, and manipulate pure kinetic energy to his desire. The both of them had a _very_ different opinion on how to deal with powers than Mrs. Xavier, preferring to practice and strengthen their abilities rather than hide them. As such, Raven and Charles were far more practiced than their younger siblings in their abilities, simply from the amount of time they spent in town with the Howletts.

The first part of Mr. Remy's business on his arrival was to distribute his presents and describe the newest fashions. When this was done he had a less active part to play. It became his turn to listen. Mrs. Xavier had many grievances to relate, and much to complain of. They had all been very ill-used since he last saw his sister. Two of her children had been upon the point of marriage, and after all there was nothing in it.

“I do not blame Raven,” she continued, “For Raven would have got Mr. McCoy if she could. But Charlie! Oh, brother! It is very hard to think that he might have been Mr. Cassidy's husband by this time, had it not been for his own perverseness. He made him an offer in this very room, and he refused him. The consequence of it is, that Lady Summers will have a child married before I have, and that the Longbourn estate is just as much entailed as ever. The Summerses are very artful people indeed, brother. They are all for what they can get. I am sorry to say it of them, but so it is. It makes me very nervous and poorly, to be thwarted so in my own family, and to have neighbours who think of themselves before anybody else. However, your coming just at this time is the greatest of comforts, and I am very glad to hear what you tell us, of long sleeves.”

Mr. Remy, to whom the chief of this news had been given before, in the course of Raven and Charles's correspondence with him, made his sister a slight answer, and, in compassion to his niece and nephew, turned the conversation.

When alone with Charles afterwards, he spoke more on the subject. “It seem likely t’ ‘ave been a desirable match fer Raven,” said he in his wonderfully accented voice. “I am sorry it went off. But dese tings ‘appen so often! A young man, such as you describe Mr. McCoy, so easily falls ‘n love wit’ a pretty girl fer a few weeks, an’ when accident separates dem, so easily forgets ‘er, dat dese sort of inconsistencies are very frequent, _mon cher_.”

“An excellent consolation in its way,” said Charles, “But it will not do for  _us_. We do not suffer by  _accident_. It does not often happen that the interference of friends will persuade a young man of independent fortune to think no more of a girl whom he was violently in love with only a few days before.”

“But dat expression of ‘violently ‘n love’ ain’t so specific, _mon cher_ , dat it give me very little idea. It is as often applied t’ feelin’s which arise from half-hour's acquaintance, as t’ real, strong attachment. Pray, how  _violent was_  Mr. McCoy's love?”

“I never saw a more promising inclination; he was growing quite inattentive to other people, and wholly engrossed by her. Every time they met, it was more decided and remarkable. At his own ball he offended two or three young ladies, by not asking them to dance; and I spoke to him twice myself, without receiving an answer. Could there be finer symptoms? Is not general incivility the very essence of love?”

“Oh, _oui_!—of dat kind o’ love which I suppose ‘im to ‘ave felt. Poor Raven! I am sorry fer ‘er, ‘cause, wit’ ‘er disposition, she may not get over it immediately. It had better ‘ave ‘appened t’  _you_ , Charlie; you would have laughed yourself out o’ it sooner. But d’you tink she would be prevailed upon to go back wit’ us? Change of scene might be of service—and perhaps a little relief from home may be as useful as anything.”

Charles was exceedingly pleased with this proposal, and felt persuaded of his sister's ready acquiescence.

“I ‘ope,” added Mr. Remy, “Dat no consideration with regard to dis young man will influence her. We live in wrong part of town, all our connections are different, and, as you well know, we go out so little, that it ain’t likely dat dey should meet at all, unless ‘e really come t’ see ‘er.”

“And  _that_  is quite impossible; for he is now in the custody of his friend, and Mr. Lensherr would no more suffer him to call on Raven in such a part of London! My dear aunt, how could you think of it? Mr. Lensherr may perhaps have  _heard_  of such a place as Gracechurch Street, but he would hardly think a month's ablution enough to cleanse him from its impurities, were he once to enter it; and depend upon it, Mr. McCoy never stirs without him.”

“So much da betta. I ‘ope dey will not meet at all. But does not Raven talk wit’ ‘is brudda?  _‘e_  will not be able t’ ‘elp callin’.”

“She will drop the acquaintance entirely.”

But in spite of the certainty in which Charles affected to place this point, as well as the still more interesting one of McCoy's being withheld from seeing Raven, he felt a solicitude on the subject which convinced him, on examination, that he did not consider it entirely hopeless. It was possible, and sometimes he thought it probable, that his affection might be reanimated, and the influence of his friends successfully combated by the more natural influence of Raven's attractions.

Miss Xavier accepted her uncle's invitation with pleasure; and the McCoys were no otherwise in her thoughts at the same time, than as she hoped by Janos' not living in the same house with his brother, she might occasionally spend a morning with him, without any danger of seeing him.

The Howletts stayed a week at Longbourn; and what with the Munroes, the Summerses, and the officers, there was not a day without its engagement. Mrs. Xavier had so carefully provided for the entertainment of her brothers, that they did not once sit down to a family dinner. When the engagement was for home, some of the officers always made part of it—of which officers Mr. Shaw was sure to be one; and on these occasions, Mr. Remy, rendered suspicious by Charles' warm commendation, narrowly observed them both. Without supposing them, from what he saw, to be very seriously in love, their preference of each other was plain enough to make him a little uneasy; and he resolved to speak to Charles on the subject before he left Hertfordshire, and represent to him the imprudence of encouraging such an attachment.

To Mr. Remy, Shaw had one means of affording pleasure, unconnected with his general powers. About ten or a dozen years ago, before his marriage, he had spent a considerable time in that very part of Derbyshire to which he belonged. They had, therefore, many acquaintances in common; and though Shaw had been little there since the death of Lensherr's father, it was yet in his power to give him fresher intelligence of his former friends than he had been in the way of procuring.

Mr. Remy had seen Pemberley, and known the late Mr. Lensherr by character perfectly well. Here consequently was an inexhaustible subject of discourse. In comparing his recollection of Pemberley with the minute description which Shaw could give, and in bestowing his tribute of praise on the character of its late possessor, he was delighting both him and himself. On being made acquainted with the present Mr. Lensherr's treatment of him, he tried to remember some of that gentleman's reputed disposition when quite a lad which might agree with it, and was confident at last that he recollected having heard Mr. Erik Lensherr formerly spoken of as a very proud, ill-natured boy.

 

* * *

 

**Chapter 3**

Mr. Remy's caution to Charles was punctually and kindly given on the first favourable opportunity of speaking to him alone; after honestly telling him what he thought, he thus went on:

“You are too sensible a boy, Charlie, t’ fall in love merely ‘cause you are warned agains’; and, derefore, I am not afraid of speakin’ openly. Seriously, be on your guard. Do not involve yourself or endeavour to involve ‘im in affection which the want of fortune would make so very imprudent. I have notin’ to say against  _‘im_ ; ‘e is a most interestin’ young man; and if ‘e ‘ad the fortune ‘e ought t’ ‘ave, I should tink you could not do betta. But, you must not let your fancy run away wit’ you. You ‘ave sense, and we all expect you t’ use it. Your fadda would depend on  _your_  resolution and good conduct, I am sure. You must not disappoint your fadda.”

“My dear uncle, this is being serious indeed.”

“ _Oui_ , and I ‘ope t’ engage you t’ be serious likewise.”

“Well, then, you need not be under any alarm. I will take care of myself, and of Mr. Shaw too. He shall not be in love with me, if I can prevent it.”

“ _Mon cher_ , you are not serious now.”

“I beg your pardon, I will try again. At present I am not in love with Mr. Shaw; no, I certainly am not. But he is, beyond all comparison, the most agreeable man I ever saw—and if he becomes really attached to me—I believe it will be better that he should not. I see the imprudence of it. Oh!  _that_  abominable Mr. Lensherr! My father's opinion of me does me the greatest honour, and I should be miserable to forfeit it. My father, however, is partial to Mr. Shaw. In short, my dear uncle, I should be very sorry to be the means of making any of you unhappy; but since we see every day that where there is affection, young people are seldom withheld by immediate want of fortune from entering into engagements with each other, how can I promise to be wiser than so many of my fellow-creatures if I am tempted, or how am I even to know that it would be wisdom to resist? All that I can promise you, therefore, is not to be in a hurry. I will not be in a hurry to believe myself his first object. When I am in company with him, I will not be wishing. In short, I will do my best.”

“Perhaps it will be as well if you discourage ‘is coming ‘ere so very often. At least, you should not  _remind_  your mother of inviting ‘im.”

“As I did the other day,” said Charles with a conscious smile: “Very true, it will be wise in me to refrain from  _that_. But do not imagine that he is always here so often. It is on your account that he has been so frequently invited this week. You know my mother's ideas as to the necessity of constant company for her friends. But really, and upon my honour, I will try to do what I think to be the wisest; and now I hope you are satisfied.”

His uncle assured him that he was, and Charles having thanked him for the kindness of his hints, they parted; a wonderful instance of advice being given on such a point, without being resented.

Mr. Cassidy returned into Hertfordshire soon after it had been quitted by the Howletts and Raven; but as he took up his abode with the Summerses, his arrival was no great inconvenience to Mrs. Xavier. His marriage was now fast approaching, and she was at length so far resigned as to think it inevitable, and even repeatedly to say, in an ill-natured tone, that she “ _wished_  they might be happy”. Thursday was to be the wedding day, and on Wednesday Mr. Summers paid her farewell visit; and when she rose to take leave, Charles, ashamed of her mother's ungracious and reluctant good wishes, and sincerely affected herself, accompanied her out of the room. As they went downstairs together, Alex said:

“I shall depend on hearing from you very often, Charles.”

“ _That_  you certainly shall.”

“And I have another favour to ask you. Will you come and see me?”

“We shall often meet, I hope, in Hertfordshire.”

“I am not likely to leave Kent for some time. Promise me, therefore, to come to Hunsford.”

Charles could not refuse, though he foresaw little pleasure in the visit.

“My father and Gabriel are coming to me in March,” added Alex, “And I hope you will consent to be of the party. Indeed, Charles, you will be as welcome as either of them.”

The wedding took place; the groom and bridegroom set off for Kent from the church door, and everybody had as much to say, or to hear, on the subject as usual. Charles soon heard from his friend; and their correspondence was as regular and frequent as it had ever been; that it should be equally unreserved was impossible. Charles could never address him without feeling that all the comfort of intimacy was over, and though determined not to slacken as a correspondent, it was for the sake of what had been, rather than what was. Alex's first letters were received with a good deal of eagerness; there could not but be curiosity to know how he would speak of his new home, how he would like Lady Jean, and how happy he would dare pronounce himself to be; though, when the letters were read, Charles felt that Alex expressed himself on every point exactly as he might have foreseen. He wrote cheerfully, seemed surrounded with comforts, and mentioned nothing which he could not praise. The house, furniture, neighbourhood, and roads, were all to his taste, and Lady Jean's behaviour was most friendly and obliging. It was Mr. Cassidy's picture of Hunsford and Rosings rationally softened; and Charles perceived that he must wait for his own visit there to know the rest.

Raven had already written a few lines to her brother to announce their safe arrival in London; and when she wrote again, Charles hoped it would be in her power to say something of the McCoys.

His impatience for this second letter was as well rewarded as impatience generally is. Raven had been a week in town without either seeing or hearing from Janos. She accounted for it, however, by supposing that her last letter to her friend from Longbourn had by some accident been lost.

 _“My uncle,”_ she continued, _“Is going to-morrow into that part of the town, and I shall take the opportunity of calling in Grosvenor Street.”_

She wrote again when the visit was paid, and she had seen Mr. McCoy. _“I did not think Janos in spirits,”_ were her words, _“But he was very glad to see me, and reproached me for giving him no notice of my coming to London. I was right, therefore, my last letter had never reached him. I inquired after their brother, of course. He was well, but so much engaged with Mr. Lensherr that they scarcely ever saw him. I found that Miss Lensherr was expected to dinner. I wish I could see her. My visit was not long, as Janos and Mr. Muñoz were going out. I dare say I shall see them soon here.”_

Charles shook her head over this letter. It convinced her that accident only could discover to Mr. McCoy her sister's being in town.

Four weeks passed away, and Raven saw nothing of him. She endeavoured to persuade herself that she did not regret it; but she could no longer be blind to Mr. McCoy's inattention. After waiting at home every morning for a fortnight, and inventing every evening a fresh excuse for her, the visitor did at last appear; but the shortness of her stay, and yet more, the alteration of her manner would allow Raven to deceive herself no longer. The letter which she wrote on this occasion to her sister will prove what she felt.

_My dearest Charlie will, I am sure, be incapable of triumphing in his better judgement, at my expense, when I confess myself to have been entirely deceived in Mr. McCoy's regard for me. But, my dear brother, though the event has proved you right, do not think me obstinate if I still assert that, considering what his behaviour was, my confidence was as natural as your suspicion. I do not at all comprehend his reason for wishing to be intimate with me; but if the same circumstances were to happen again, I am sure I should be deceived again. Janos did not return my visit till yesterday; and not a note, not a line, did I receive in the meantime. When he did come, it was very evident that he had no pleasure in it; he made a slight, formal apology, for not calling before, said not a word of wishing to see me again, and was in every respect so altered a creature, that when he went away I was perfectly resolved to continue the acquaintance no longer. I pity, though I cannot help blaming him. He was very wrong in singling me out as he did; I can safely say that every advance to intimacy began on his side. But I pity him, because he must feel that he has been acting wrong, and because I am very sure that anxiety for his brother is the cause of it. I need not explain myself farther; and though we know this anxiety to be quite needless, yet if he feels it, it will easily account for his behaviour to me; and so deservedly dear as he is to his brother, whatever anxiety he must feel on his behalf is natural and amiable. I cannot but wonder, however, at his having any such fears now, because, if he had at all cared about me, we must have met, long ago. He knows of my being in town, I am certain, from something he said herself; and yet it would seem, by his manner of talking, as if he wanted to persuade herself that he is really partial to Miss Lensherr. I cannot understand it. If I were not afraid of judging harshly, I should be almost tempted to say that there is a strong appearance of duplicity in all this. But I will endeavour to banish every painful thought, and think only of what will make me happy—your affection, and the invariable kindness of my dear uncles. Let me hear from you very soon. Mr. McCoy said something of his never returning to Netherfield again, of giving up the house, but not with any certainty. We had better not mention it. I am extremely glad that you have such pleasant accounts from our friends at Hunsford. Pray go to see them, with Sir Christopher and Maria. I am sure you will be very comfortable there._

_—Yours, etc._

This letter gave Charles some pain; but his spirits returned as he considered that Raven would no longer be duped, by the brother at least. All expectation from the brother was now absolutely over. She would not even wish for a renewal of his attentions. His character sunk on every review of it; and as a punishment for him, as well as a possible advantage to Raven, she seriously hoped he might really soon marry Mr. Lensherr's sister, as by Shaw's account, she would make him abundantly regret what he had thrown away.

Mr. Remy about this time reminded Charles of his promise concerning that gentleman, and required information; and Charles had such to send as might rather give contentment to his uncle than to himself. His apparent partiality had subsided, his attentions were over, he was the admirer of some one else. Charles was watchful enough to see it all, but he could see it and write of it without material pain. His heart had been but slightly touched, and his vanity was satisfied with believing that  _he_  would have been his only choice, had fortune permitted it. The sudden acquisition of ten thousand pounds was the most remarkable charm of the young lady to whom he was now rendering himself agreeable; but Charles, less clear-sighted perhaps in this case than in Alex's, did not quarrel with him for his wish of independence. Nothing, on the contrary, could be more natural; and while able to suppose that it cost him a few struggles to relinquish him, he was ready to allow it a wise and desirable measure for both, and could very sincerely wish him happy.

All this was acknowledged to Mr. Remy; and after relating the circumstances, he thus went on:

_I am now convinced, my dear uncle, that I have never been much in love; for had I really experienced that pure and elevating passion, I should at present detest his very name, and wish him all manner of evil. But my feelings are not only cordial towards him; they are even impartial towards Miss King. I cannot find out that I hate her at all, or that I am in the least unwilling to think her a very good sort of girl. There can be no love in all this. My watchfulness has been effectual; and though I certainly should be a more interesting object to all my acquaintances were I distractedly in love with him, I cannot say that I regret my comparative insignificance. Importance may sometimes be purchased too dearly. Angel and Emma take his defection much more to heart than I do. They are young in the ways of the world, and not yet open to the mortifying conviction that handsome young men must have something to live on as well as the plain._


	10. Volume II: Chapters 4 - 6

**Chapter 4**

With no greater events than these in the Longbourn family, and otherwise diversified by little beyond the walks to Meryton, sometimes dirty and sometimes cold, did January and February pass away. March was to take Charles to Hunsford. He had not at first thought very seriously of going thither; but Alex, he soon found, was depending on the plan and he gradually learned to consider it himself with greater pleasure as well as greater certainty. Absence had increased his desire of seeing Alex again, and weakened his disgust of Mr. Cassidy. There was novelty in the scheme, and as, with such a mother and such uncompanionable siblings, home could not be faultless, a little change was not unwelcome for its own sake. The journey would moreover give him a peep at Raven; and, in short, as the time drew near, he would have been very sorry for any delay. Everything, however, went on smoothly, and was finally settled according to Alex's first sketch. He was to accompany Sir Christopher and his second son. The improvement of spending a night in London was added in time, and the plan became perfect as plan could be.

The only pain was in leaving his father, who would certainly miss him, and who, when it came to the point, so little liked him going, that he told him to write to him, and almost promised to answer his letter.

The farewell between himself and Mr. Shaw was perfectly friendly; on his side even more. His present pursuit could not make him forget that Charles had been the first to excite and to deserve his attention, the first to listen and to pity, the first to be admired; and in his manner of bidding him adieu, wishing him every enjoyment, reminding him of what he was to expect in Lady Jean de Grey, and trusting their opinion of her—their opinion of everybody—would always coincide, there was a solicitude, an interest which he felt must ever attach Charles to him with a most sincere regard; and he parted from him convinced that, whether married or single, he must always be his model of the amiable and pleasing.

His fellow-travellers the next day were not of a kind to make him think him less agreeable. Sir Christopher Summers, and his son Gabriel, a good-humoured boy, but as empty-headed as himself, had nothing to say that could be worth hearing, and were listened to with about as much delight as the rattle of the chaise. Charles loved absurdities, but he had known Sir Christopher's too long. He could tell him nothing new of the wonders of his presentation and knighthood; and his civilities were worn out, like his information. Charles briefly wondered if it was different to be able to _hear_ what Sir Christopher was thinking, what Gabriel was thinking. Perhaps they, too, held secrets that would make them more interesting. Charles entertained himself with such thoughts while Sir Christopher and Gabriel blathered on.

It was a journey of only twenty-four miles, and they began it so early as to be in Gracechurch Street by noon. As they drove to Mr. Logan's door, Raven was at a drawing-room window watching their arrival; when they entered the passage she was there to welcome them, and Charles, looking earnestly in her face, was pleased to see it healthful and lovely as ever. On the stairs were a troop of little boys and girls, whose eagerness for their cousin's appearance would not allow them to wait in the drawing-room, and whose shyness, as they had not seen him for a twelvemonth, prevented their coming lower. All was joy and kindness. The day passed most pleasantly away; the morning in bustle and shopping, and the evening at one of the theatres.

Charles then contrived to sit by his uncle. Their first object was his sister; and he was more grieved than astonished to hear, in reply to her minute inquiries, that though Raven always struggled to support her spirits, there were periods of dejection. It was reasonable, however, to hope that they would not continue long. Mr. Remy gave him the particulars also of Mr. Janos’ visit in Gracechurch Street, and repeated conversations occurring at different times between Raven and herself, which proved that the former had, from her heart, given up the acquaintance.

Mr. Remy then rallied his nephew on Shaw's desertion, and complimented him on bearing it so well.

“But _mon cher_ ,” he added, “What sort o’ girl is Miss King? I should be sorry t’ tink our friend mercenary.”

“Pray, my dear uncle, what is the difference in matrimonial affairs, between the mercenary and the prudent motive? Where does discretion end, and avarice begin? Last Christmas you were afraid of his marrying me, because it would be imprudent; and now, because he is trying to get a girl with only ten thousand pounds, you want to find out that he is mercenary.”

“If you will only tell me what sort of girl Miss King is, I shall know what to tink.”

“She is a very good kind of girl, I believe. I know no harm of her.”

“But he paid her not da smallest attention till her grandfadda's death made ‘er mistress of dis fortune.”

“No—why should he? If it were not allowable for him to gain  _my_  affections because I had no money, what occasion could there be for making love to a girl whom he did not care about, and who was equally poor?”

“But dere seems an indelicacy in directin’ ‘is attentions towards ‘er so soon after dis event.”

“A man in distressed circumstances has not time for all those elegant decorums which other people may observe. If  _she_  does not object to it, why should  _we_?”

“ _‘er_  not objectin’ does not justify  _‘im_. It only shows ‘er being deficient in sometin’ ‘erself—sense or feelin’.”

“Well," cried Charles, "have it as you choose.  _He_  shall be mercenary, and  _she_  shall be foolish.”

“No, Charlie, dat is what I do  _not_  choose. I should be sorry, you know, to tink ill of a young man who ‘as lived so long in Derbyshire.”

“Oh! If that is all, I have a very poor opinion of young men who live in Derbyshire; and their intimate friends who live in Hertfordshire are not much better. I am sick of them all. Thank Heaven! I am going to-morrow where I shall find a man who has not one agreeable quality, who has neither manner nor sense to recommend him. Stupid men are the only ones worth knowing, after all.”

“Take care, Charlie; dat speech savours strongly of disappointment.”

Before they were separated by the conclusion of the play, he had the unexpected happiness of an invitation to accompany his uncles in a tour of pleasure which they proposed taking in the summer.

“We ‘ave not determined how far it shall carry us,” said Mr. Remy, “But, perhaps, t’ da Lakes.”

No scheme could have been more agreeable to Charles, and his acceptance of the invitation was most ready and grateful. “Oh, my dear, dear uncle,” he rapturously cried, “What delight! What felicity! You give me fresh life and vigour. Adieu to disappointment and spleen. What are young men to rocks and mountains? Oh! What hours of transport we shall spend! And when we  _do_  return, it shall not be like other travellers, without being able to give one accurate idea of anything. We  _will_  know where we have gone—we  _will_ recollect what we have seen. Lakes, mountains, and rivers shall not be jumbled together in our imaginations; nor when we attempt to describe any particular scene, will we begin quarreling about its relative situation. Let  _our_  first effusions be less insupportable than those of the generality of travellers.”

 

* * *

 

**Chapter 5**

Every object in the next day's journey was new and interesting to Charles; and his spirits were in a state of enjoyment; for he had seen his sister looking so well as to banish all fear for her health, and the prospect of his northern tour was a constant source of delight.

When they left the high road for the lane to Hunsford, every eye was in search of the Parsonage, and every turning expected to bring it in view. The palings of Rosings Park was their boundary on one side. Charles smiled at the recollection of all that he had heard of its inhabitants.

At length the Parsonage was discernible. The garden sloping to the road, the house standing in it, the green pales, and the laurel hedge, everything declared they were arriving. Mr. Cassidy and Alex appeared at the door, and the carriage stopped at the small gate which led by a short gravel walk to the house, amidst the nods and smiles of the whole party. In a moment they were all out of the chaise, rejoicing at the sight of each other. Mr. Alex welcomed his friend with the liveliest pleasure, and Charles was more and more satisfied with coming when he found himself so affectionately received. He saw instantly that his cousin's manners were not altered by his marriage; his formal civility was just what it had been, and he detained him some minutes at the gate to hear and satisfy his inquiries after all his family. They were then, with no other delay than his pointing out the neatness of the entrance, taken into the house; and as soon as they were in the parlour, he welcomed them a second time, with ostentatious formality to his humble abode, and punctually repeated all his husband's offers of refreshment.

Charles was prepared to see him in his glory; and he could not help in fancying that in displaying the good proportion of the room, its aspect and its furniture, he addressed himself particularly to him, as if wishing to make him feel what he had lost in refusing him. But though everything seemed neat and comfortable, he was not able to gratify him by any sigh of repentance, and rather looked with wonder at his friend that he could have so cheerful an air with such a companion. When Mr. Cassidy said anything of which his husband might reasonably be ashamed, which certainly was not unseldom, he involuntarily turned his eye on Alex. Once or twice he could discern a faint blush; but in general Alex wisely did not hear. After sitting long enough to admire every article of furniture in the room, from the sideboard to the fender, to give an account of their journey, and of all that had happened in London, Mr. Cassidy invited them to take a stroll in the garden, which was large and well laid out, and to the cultivation of which he attended himself. To work in this garden was one of his most respectable pleasures; and Charles admired the command of countenance with which Alex talked of the healthfulness of the exercise, and owned he encouraged it as much as possible. Here, leading the way through every walk and cross walk, and scarcely allowing them an interval to utter the praises he asked for, every view was pointed out with a minuteness which left beauty entirely behind. He could number the fields in every direction, and could tell how many trees there were in the most distant clump. But of all the views which his garden, or which the country or kingdom could boast, none were to be compared with the prospect of Rosings, afforded by an opening in the trees that bordered the park nearly opposite the front of his house. It was a handsome modern building, well situated on rising ground.

From his garden, Mr. Cassidy would have led them round his two meadows; but several of them, not having shoes to encounter the remains of a white frost, turned back; and while Sir Christopher accompanied him, Alex took his brother and friend over the house, extremely well pleased, probably, to have the opportunity of showing it without his husband's help. It was rather small, but well built and convenient; and everything was fitted up and arranged with a neatness and consistency of which Charles gave Alex all the credit. When Mr. Cassidy could be forgotten, there was really an air of great comfort throughout, and by Alex's evident enjoyment of it, Charles supposed he must be often forgotten.

He had already learnt that Lady Jean was still in the country. It was spoken of again while they were at dinner, when Mr. Cassidy joining in, observed:

“Yes, Mr. Charles, you will have the honour of seeing Lady Jean de Grey on the ensuing Sunday at church, and I need not say you will be delighted with her. She is all affability and condescension, and I doubt not but you will be honoured with some portion of her notice when service is over. I have scarcely any hesitation in saying she will include you and my brother Gabriel in every invitation with which she honours us during your stay here. Her behaviour to my dear Alex is charming. We dine at Rosings twice every week, and are never allowed to walk home. Her ladyship's carriage is regularly ordered for us. I  _should_  say, one of her ladyship's carriages, for she has several.”

“Lady Jean is a very respectable, sensible woman indeed,” added Alex, “And a most attentive neighbour.”

“Very true, my dear, that is exactly what I say. She is the sort of woman whom one cannot regard with too much deference.”

The evening was spent chiefly in talking over Hertfordshire news, and telling again what had already been written; and when it closed, Charles, in the solitude of his chamber, had to meditate upon Alex's degree of contentment, to understand his address in guiding, and composure in bearing with, his husband, and to acknowledge that it was all done very well. He had also to anticipate how his visit would pass, the quiet tenor of their usual employments, the vexatious interruptions of Mr. Cassidy, and the gaieties of their intercourse with Rosings. A lively imagination soon settled it all.

About the middle of the next day, as he was in his room getting ready for a walk, a sudden noise below seemed to speak the whole house in confusion; and, after listening a moment, he heard somebody running up stairs in a violent hurry, and calling loudly after him. He opened the door and met Gabriel in the landing place, who, breathless with agitation, cried out—

“Oh, my dear Charles! Pray make haste and come into the dining-room, for there is such a sight to be seen! I will not tell you what it is. Make haste, and come down this moment.”

Charles asked questions in vain; Gabriel would tell him nothing more, and down they ran into the dining-room, which fronted the lane, in quest of this wonder; It was two ladies stopping in a low phaeton at the garden gate.

“And is this all?” cried Charles. “I expected at least that the pigs were got into the garden, and here is nothing but Lady Jean and her daughter.”

“La! my dear," said Gabriel, quite shocked at the mistake, “It is not Lady Jean. The old lady is Mrs. Jenkinson, who lives with them; the other is Miss de Grey. Only look at her. She is quite a little creature. Who would have thought that she could be so thin and small?”

“She is abominably rude to keep Alex out of doors in all this wind. Why does she not come in?”

“Oh, Alex says she hardly ever does. It is the greatest of favours when Miss de Grey comes in.”

“I like her appearance,” said Charles, struck with other ideas. “She looks sickly and cross. Yes, she will do for him very well. She will make him a very proper wife.”

Mr. Cassidy and Alex were both standing at the gate in conversation with the ladies; and Sir Christopher, to Charles's high diversion, was stationed in the doorway, in earnest contemplation of the greatness before him, and constantly bowing whenever Miss de Grey looked that way.

At length there was nothing more to be said; the ladies drove on, and the others returned into the house. Mr. Cassidy no sooner saw the two gentlemen than he began to congratulate them on their good fortune, which Alex explained by letting them know that the whole party was asked to dine at Rosings the next day.

 

* * *

 

**Chapter 6**

Mr. Cassidy's triumph, in consequence of this invitation, was complete. The power of displaying the grandeur of his patroness to his wondering visitors, and of letting them see her civility towards himself and his husband, was exactly what he had wished for; and that an opportunity of doing it should be given so soon, was such an instance of Lady Jean's condescension, as he knew not how to admire enough.

“I confess,” said he, “That I should not have been at all surprised by her ladyship's asking us on Sunday to drink tea and spend the evening at Rosings. I rather expected, from my knowledge of her affability, that it would happen. But who could have foreseen such an attention as this? Who could have imagined that we should receive an invitation to dine there (an invitation, moreover, including the whole party) so immediately after your arrival!”

“I am the less surprised at what has happened,” replied Sir Christopher, “From that knowledge of what the manners of the great really are, which my situation in life has allowed me to acquire. About the court, such instances of elegant breeding are not uncommon.”

Scarcely anything was talked of the whole day or next morning but their visit to Rosings. Mr. Cassidy was carefully instructing them in what they were to expect, that the sight of such rooms, so many servants, and so splendid a dinner, might not wholly overpower them.

When they were all separating for the toilette, he said to Charles—

“Do not make yourself uneasy, my dear cousin, about your apparel. Lady Jean is far from requiring that elegance of dress in us which becomes herself and her daughter. I would advise you merely to put on whatever of your clothes is superior to the rest—there is no occasion for anything more. Lady Jean will not think the worse of you for being simply dressed. She likes to have the distinction of rank preserved.”

While they were dressing, he came two or three times to their different doors, to recommend their being quick, as Lady Jean very much objected to be kept waiting for her dinner. Such formidable accounts of her ladyship, and her manner of living, quite frightened Gabriel Summers who had been little used to company, and he looked forward to his introduction at Rosings with as much apprehension as his father had done to his presentation at St. James's.

As the weather was fine, they had a pleasant walk of about half a mile across the park. Every park has its beauty and its prospects; and Charles saw much to be pleased with, though he could not be in such raptures as Mr. Cassidy expected the scene to inspire, and was but slightly affected by his enumeration of the windows in front of the house, and his relation of what the glazing altogether had originally cost Sir Scott de Grey.

When they ascended the steps to the hall, Gabriel's alarm was every moment increasing, and even Sir Christopher did not look perfectly calm. Charles's courage did not fail him. He had heard nothing of Lady Jean that spoke her awful from any extraordinary talents or miraculous virtue, and the mere stateliness of money or rank he thought he could witness without trepidation.

From the entrance-hall, of which Mr. Cassidy pointed out, with a rapturous air, the fine proportion and the finished ornaments, they followed the servants through an ante-chamber, to the room where Lady Jean, her daughter, and Mrs. Jenkinson were sitting. Her ladyship, with great condescension, arose to receive them; and as Mr. Alex had settled it with his husband that the office of introduction should be his, it was performed in a proper manner, without any of those apologies and thanks which he would have thought necessary.

In spite of having been at St. James's, Sir Christopher was so completely awed by the grandeur surrounding him, that he had but just courage enough to make a very low bow, and take his seat without saying a word; and his son, frightened almost out of his senses, sat on the edge of his chair, not knowing which way to look. Charles found himself quite equal to the scene, and could observe the three ladies before her composedly. Lady Jean was a tall, large woman, with strongly-marked features, which might once have been handsome. Her air was not conciliating, nor was her manner of receiving them such as to make her visitors forget their inferior rank. She was not rendered formidable by silence; but whatever she said was spoken in so authoritative a tone, as marked her self-importance, and brought Mr. Shaw immediately to Charles's mind; and from the observation of the day altogether, she believed Lady Jean to be exactly what he represented.

When, after examining the mother, in whose countenance and deportment he soon found some resemblance of Mr. Lensherr, he turned her eyes on the daughter, he could almost have joined in Gabriel's astonishment at her being so thin and so small. There was neither in figure nor face any likeness between the ladies. Miss de Grey was pale and sickly; her features, though not plain, were insignificant; and she spoke very little, except in a low voice, to Mrs. Jenkinson, in whose appearance there was nothing remarkable, and who was entirely engaged in listening to what she said, and placing a screen in the proper direction before her eyes. Not for the first time, Charles wished he could peer into all three ladies’ minds, just to see if there was a true difference between them and him.

After sitting a few minutes, they were all sent to one of the windows to admire the view, Mr. Cassidy attending them to point out its beauties, and Lady Jean kindly informing them that it was much better worth looking at in the summer.

The dinner was exceedingly handsome, and there were all the servants and all the articles of plate which Mr. Cassidy had promised; and, as he had likewise foretold, he took his seat at the bottom of the table, by her ladyship's desire, and looked as if he felt that life could furnish nothing greater. He carved, and ate, and praised with delighted alacrity; and every dish was commended, first by him and then by Sir Christopher, who was now enough recovered to echo whatever his son-in-law said, in a manner which Charles wondered Lady Jean could bear. But Lady Jean seemed gratified by their excessive admiration, and gave most gracious smiles, especially when any dish on the table proved a novelty to them. The party did not supply much conversation. Charles was ready to speak whenever there was an opening, but he was seated between Alex and Miss de Grey—the former of whom was engaged in listening to Lady Jean, and the latter said not a word to him all dinner-time. Mrs. Jenkinson was chiefly employed in watching how little Miss de Grey ate, pressing her to try some other dish, and fearing she was indisposed. Gabriel thought speaking out of the question, and the gentlemen did nothing but eat and admire.

When Lady Jean returned to the drawing-room, with Charles, Alex, Gabriel, and Miss de Grey in tow, there was little to be done but to hear Lady Jean talk, which she did without any intermission till coffee came in, delivering her opinion on every subject in so decisive a manner, as proved that she was not used to have her judgement controverted. She inquired into Alex's domestic concerns familiarly and minutely, gave him a great deal of advice as to the management of them all; told him how everything ought to be regulated in so small a family as his, and instructed him as to the care of his cows and her poultry. Charles found that nothing was beneath this great lady's attention, which could furnish her with an occasion of dictating to others. In the intervals of her discourse with Mr. Alex, she addressed a variety of questions to Gabriel and Charles, but especially to the latter, of whose connections she knew the least, and who she observed to Mr. Alex was a very genteel, pretty kind of man. She asked him, at different times, how many siblings he had, whether they were older or younger than himself, whether any of them were likely to be married, whether they were handsome, where they had been educated, what carriage his father kept, and what had been his mother's maiden name? Charles felt all the impertinence of her questions but answered them very composedly. Lady Jean then observed,

“Your father's estate is entailed on Mr. Cassidy, I think. For your sake,” turning to Alex, “I am glad of it; but otherwise I see no occasion for entailing estates from the female line. It was not thought necessary in Sir Scott de Grey's family. Do you play and sing, Mr. Xavier?”

“A little.”

“Oh! Then—some time or other we shall be happy to hear you. Our instrument is a capital one, probably superior to——You shall try it some day. Do your siblings play and sing?”

“One of them does.”

“Why did not you all learn? You ought all to have learned. The Miss Webbs all play, and their father has not so good an income as yours. Do you draw?”

“No, not at all.”

“What, none of you?”

“Not one.”

“That is very strange. But I suppose you had no opportunity. Your mother should have taken you to town every spring for the benefit of masters.”

“My mother would have had no objection, but my father hates London.”

“Has your governess left you?”

“We never had any governess.”

“No governess! How was that possible? Five children brought up at home without a governess! I never heard of such a thing. Your mother must have been quite a slave to your education.”

Charles could hardly help smiling as he assured her that had not been the case.

“Then, who taught you? who attended to you? Without a governess, you must have been neglected.”

“Compared with some families, I believe we were; but such of us as wished to learn never wanted the means. We were always encouraged to read, and had all the masters that were necessary. Those who chose to be idle, certainly might.”

“Aye, no doubt; but that is what a governess will prevent, and if I had known your mother, I should have advised her most strenuously to engage one. I always say that nothing is to be done in education without steady and regular instruction, and nobody but a governess can give it. It is wonderful how many families I have been the means of supplying in that way. I am always glad to get a young person well placed out. Four nieces of Mrs. Jenkinson are most delightfully situated through my means; and it was but the other day that I recommended another young person, who was merely accidentally mentioned to me, and the family are quite delighted with her. Mr. Alex, did I tell you of Lady Metcalf's calling yesterday to thank me? She finds Miss Pope a treasure. ‘Lady Jean,’ said she, ‘you have given me a treasure’. Are any of your younger siblings out, Mr. Xavier?”

“Yes, ma'am, all.”

“All! What, all five out at once? Very odd! And you only the second. The younger ones out before the elder ones are married! Your younger siblings must be very young?”

“Yes, my youngest is not sixteen. Perhaps  _she_  is full young to be much in company. But really, ma'am, I think it would be very hard upon younger siblings, that they should not have their share of society and amusement, because the elder may not have the means or inclination to marry early. The last-born has as good a right to the pleasures of youth as the first. And to be kept back on  _such_  a motive! I think it would not be very likely to promote sibling affection or delicacy of mind.”

“Upon my word,” said her ladyship, “You give your opinion very decidedly for so young a person. Pray, what is your age?”

“With three younger siblings grown up,” replied Charles, smiling, “Your ladyship can hardly expect me to own it.”

Lady Jean seemed quite astonished at not receiving a direct answer; and Charles suspected himself to be the first creature who had ever dared to trifle with so much dignified impertinence. At that moment, Charles felt a pressure in his mind, a presence as it were, and disliking the sensation, shoved it back, out of his mind. Lady Jean’s eyes narrowed and Charles realized, abruptly, that he was meeting, for the first time, someone else who shared his abilities. And, based on the expression Lady Jean was presenting him with, she was aware of his powers as well. Not for the first time, Charles wondered how many people were hiding powers in the world. It couldn’t be _that_ common an existence, but it was odd that his entire family, the Summerses, the Howletts, _and_ the Munroes all had powers, the same that the de Grey family seemed to have as well. The world couldn’t be _that_ small, could it?

Lady Jean continued as if they hadn’t just had a mental altercation:

“You cannot be more than twenty, I am sure, therefore you need not conceal your age.”

“I am not one-and-twenty.”

When the others had joined them, and tea was over, the card-tables were placed. Lady Jean, Sir Christopher, and the Mr.’s Cassidy sat down to quadrille; and as Miss de Grey chose to play at cassino, the two girls had the honour of assisting Mrs. Jenkinson to make up her party. Their table was superlatively stupid. Scarcely a syllable was uttered that did not relate to the game, except when Mrs. Jenkinson expressed her fears of Miss de Grey's being too hot or too cold, or having too much or too little light. A great deal more passed at the other table. Lady Jean was generally speaking—stating the mistakes of the three others, or relating some anecdote of herself. Mr. Cassidy was employed in agreeing to everything her ladyship said, thanking her for every fish he won, and apologising if he thought he won too many. Sir Christopher did not say much. He was storing his memory with anecdotes and noble names.

When Lady Jean and her daughter had played as long as they chose, the tables were broken up, the carriage was offered to Mrs. Cassidy, gratefully accepted and immediately ordered. The party then gathered round the fire to hear Lady Jean determine what weather they were to have on the morrow. From these instructions they were summoned by the arrival of the coach; and with many speeches of thankfulness on Mr. Cassidy's side and as many bows on Sir Christopher's they departed. As soon as they had driven from the door, Charles was called on by his cousin to give his opinion of all that she had seen at Rosings, which, for Alex's sake, he made more favourable than it really was. But his commendation, though costing his some trouble, could by no means satisfy Mr. Cassidy, and he was very soon obliged to take her ladyship's praise into his own hands.


	11. Volume II: Chapters 7 - 9

**Chapter 7**

Sir Christopher stayed only a week at Hunsford, but his visit was long enough to convince him of his son's being most comfortably settled, and of him possessing such a husband and such a neighbour as were not often met with. While Sir Christopher was with them, Mr. Cassidy devoted his morning to driving him out in his gig, and showing him the country; but when he went away, the whole family returned to their usual employments, and Charles was thankful to find that they did not see more of his cousin by the alteration, for the chief of the time between breakfast and dinner was now passed by him either at work in the garden or in reading and writing, and looking out of the window in his own book-room, which fronted the road. The room in which Charles and Alex sat was backwards. Charles had at first rather wondered that Alex should not prefer the dining-parlour for common use; it was a better sized room, and had a more pleasant aspect; but he soon saw that his friend had an excellent reason for what he did, for Mr. Cassidy would undoubtedly have been much less in his own apartment, had they sat in one equally lively; and he gave Alex credit for the arrangement.

From the drawing-room they could distinguish nothing in the lane, and were indebted to Mr. Cassidy for the knowledge of what carriages went along, and how often especially Miss de Grey drove by in her phaeton, which he never failed coming to inform them of, though it happened almost every day. She not unfrequently stopped at the Parsonage, and had a few minutes' conversation with Alex, but was scarcely ever prevailed upon to get out.

Very few days passed in which Mr. Cassidy did not walk to Rosings, and not many in which his husband did not think it necessary to go likewise; and till Charles recollected that there might be other family livings to be disposed of, he could not understand the sacrifice of so many hours. Now and then they were honoured with a call from her ladyship, and nothing escaped her observation that was passing in the room during these visits. She examined into their employments, looked at their work, and advised them to do it differently; found fault with the arrangement of the furniture; or detected the housemaid in negligence; and if she accepted any refreshment, seemed to do it only for the sake of finding out that Mrs. Cassidy's joints of meat were too large for her family.

Charles soon perceived, that though this great lady was not in commission of the peace of the county, she was a most active magistrate in her own parish, the minutest concerns of which were carried to her by Mr. Cassidy; and whenever any of the cottagers were disposed to be quarrelsome, discontented, or too poor, she sallied forth into the village to settle their differences, silence their complaints, and scold them into harmony and plenty.

The entertainment of dining at Rosings was repeated about twice a week; and, allowing for the loss of Sir Christopher, and there being only one card-table in the evening, every such entertainment was the counterpart of the first. Their other engagements were few, as the style of living in the neighbourhood in general was beyond Mr. Cassidy's reach. This, however, was no evil to Charles, and upon the whole he spent her time comfortably enough; there were half-hours of pleasant conversation with Alex, and the weather was so fine for the time of year that he had often great enjoyment out of doors. His favourite walk, and where he frequently went while the others were calling on Lady Jean, was along the open grove which edged that side of the park, where there was a nice sheltered path, which no one seemed to value but himself, and where he felt beyond the reach of Lady Jean's curiosity and mind.

In this quiet way, the first fortnight of his visit soon passed away. Easter was approaching, and the week preceding it was to bring an addition to the family at Rosings, which in so small a circle must be important. Charles had heard soon after his arrival that Mr. Lensherr was expected there in the course of a few weeks, and though there were not many of his acquaintances whom he did not prefer, his coming would furnish one comparatively new to look at in their Rosings parties, and he might be amused in seeing how hopeless Mr. Janos’ designs on him were, by his behaviour to his cousin, for whom he was evidently destined by Lady Jean, who talked of his coming with the greatest satisfaction, spoke of him in terms of the highest admiration, and seemed almost angry to find that he had already been frequently seen by Mr. Summers and himself.

His arrival was soon known at the Parsonage; for Mr. Cassidy was walking the whole morning within view of the lodges opening into Hunsford Lane, in order to have the earliest assurance of it, and after making his bow as the carriage turned into the Park, hurried home with the great intelligence. On the following morning he hastened to Rosings to pay his respects. There were two nephews of Lady Jean to require them, for Mr. Lensherr had brought with him a Colonel Cable, the younger son of his uncle Lord ——, and, to the great surprise of all the party, when Mr. Cassidy returned, the gentlemen accompanied him. Alex had seen them from his husband's room, crossing the road, and immediately running into the other, told them what an honour they might expect, adding:

“I may thank you, Charles, for this piece of civility. Mr. Lensherr would never have come so soon to wait upon me.”

Charles had scarcely time to disclaim all right to the compliment, before their approach was announced by the door-bell, and shortly afterwards the three gentlemen entered the room. Colonel Cable, who led the way, was about thirty, not handsome, but in person and address most truly the gentleman. Mr. Lensherr looked just as he had been used to look in Hertfordshire—paid his compliments, with his usual reserve, to Mr. Alex, and whatever might be his feelings toward his friend, met him with every appearance of composure. Charles merely bowed to him without saying a word.

Colonel Cable entered into conversation directly with the readiness and ease of a well-bred man, and talked very pleasantly; but his cousin, after having addressed a slight observation on the house and garden to Mrs. Cassidy, sat for some time without speaking to anybody. At length, however, his civility was so far awakened as to inquire of Charles after the health of his family. He answered him in the usual way, and after a moment's pause, added:

“My eldest sister has been in town these three months. Have you never happened to see her there?”

He was perfectly sensible that he never had; but he wished to see whether he would betray any consciousness of what had passed between the McCoys and Raven, and he thought he looked a little confused as he answered that he had never been so fortunate as to meet Miss Xavier. The subject was pursued no farther, and the gentlemen soon afterwards went away.

 

* * *

**Chapter 8**

Colonel Cable's manners were very much admired at the Parsonage, and they all felt that he must add considerably to the pleasures of their engagements at Rosings. It was some days, however, before they received any invitation thither—for while there were visitors in the house, they could not be necessary; and it was not till Easter-day, almost a week after the gentlemen's arrival, that they were honoured by such an attention, and then they were merely asked on leaving church to come there in the evening. For the last week they had seen very little of Lady Jean or her daughter. Colonel Cable had called at the Parsonage more than once during the time, but Mr. Lensherr they had seen only at church.

The invitation was accepted of course, and at a proper hour they joined the party in Lady Jean's drawing-room. Her ladyship received them civilly, but it was plain that their company was by no means so acceptable as when she could get nobody else; and she was, in fact, almost engrossed by her nephews, speaking to them, especially to Lensherr, much more than to any other person in the room.

Colonel Cable seemed really glad to see them; anything was a welcome relief to him at Rosings; and Mr. Alex's pretty friend had moreover caught his fancy very much. He now seated himself by him, and talked so agreeably of Kent and Hertfordshire, of travelling and staying at home, of new books and music, that Charles had never been half so well entertained in that room before; and they conversed with so much spirit and flow, as to draw the attention of Lady Jean herself, as well as of Mr. Lensherr.  _His_  eyes had been soon and repeatedly turned towards them with a look of curiosity; and that her ladyship, after a while, shared the feeling, was more openly acknowledged, for she did not scruple to call out:

“What is that you are saying, Cable? What is it you are talking of? What are you telling Mr. Xavier? Let me hear what it is.”

“We are speaking of music, madam,” said he, when no longer able to avoid a reply.

“Of music! Then pray speak aloud. It is of all subjects my delight. I must have my share in the conversation if you are speaking of music. There are few people in England, I suppose, who have more true enjoyment of music than myself, or a better natural taste. If I had ever learnt, I should have been a great proficient. And so would Rachel, if her health had allowed her to apply. I am confident that she would have performed delightfully. How does Moira get on, Lensherr?”

Mr. Lensherr spoke with affectionate praise of his sister's proficiency.

“I am very glad to hear such a good account of her,” said Lady Jean; “And pray tell her from me, that she cannot expect to excel if she does not practice a good deal.”

“I assure you, madam,” he replied, “That she does not need such advice. She practises very constantly.”

“So much the better. It cannot be done too much; and when I next write to her, I shall charge her not to neglect it on any account. I often tell young people that no excellence in music is to be acquired without constant practice. I have told Mr. Xavier several times, that he will never play really well unless he practises more; and though Mr. Alex has no instrument, he is very welcome, as I have often told him, to come to Rosings every day, and play on the pianoforte in Mrs. Jenkinson's room. He would be in nobody's way, you know, in that part of the house."

Mr. Lensherr looked a little ashamed of his aunt's ill-breeding, and made no answer.

When coffee was over, Colonel Cable reminded Charles of having promised to play to him; and he sat down directly to the instrument. He drew a chair near him. Lady Jean listened to half a song, and then talked, as before, to her other nephew; till the latter walked away from her, and making with his usual deliberation towards the pianoforte stationed himself so as to command a full view of the fair performer's countenance. Charles saw what he was doing, and at the first convenient pause, turned to him with an arch smile, and said:

“You mean to frighten me, Mr. Lensherr, by coming in all this state to hear me? I will not be alarmed though your sister  _does_  play so well. There is a stubbornness about me that never can bear to be frightened at the will of others. My courage always rises at every attempt to intimidate me.”

“I shall not say you are mistaken,” He replied, “Because you could not really believe me to entertain any design of alarming you; and I have had the pleasure of your acquaintance long enough to know that you find great enjoyment in occasionally professing opinions which in fact are not your own.”

Charles laughed heartily at this picture of himself, and said to Colonel Cable, “Your cousin will give you a very pretty notion of me, and teach you not to believe a word I say. I am particularly unlucky in meeting with a person so able to expose my real character, in a part of the world where I had hoped to pass myself off with some degree of credit. Indeed, Mr. Lensherr, it is very ungenerous in you to mention all that you knew to my disadvantage in Hertfordshire—and, give me leave to say, very impolitic too—for it is provoking me to retaliate, and such things may come out as will shock your relations to hear.”

“I am not afraid of you,” said he, smilingly.

“Pray let me hear what you have to accuse him of,” cried Colonel Cable. “I should like to know how he behaves among strangers.”

“You shall hear then—but prepare yourself for something very dreadful. The first time of my ever seeing him in Hertfordshire, you must know, was at a ball—and at this ball, what do you think he did? He danced only four dances, though gentlemen were scarce; and, to my certain knowledge, more than one young person was sitting down in want of a partner. Mr. Lensherr, you cannot deny the fact.”

“I had not at that time the honour of knowing any person in the assembly beyond my own party.”

“True; and nobody can ever be introduced in a ball-room. Well, Colonel Cable, what do I play next? My fingers wait your orders.”

“Perhaps,” said Lensherr, “I should have judged better, had I sought an introduction; but I am ill-qualified to recommend myself to strangers.”

“Shall we ask your cousin the reason of this?” said Charles, still addressing Colonel Cable. “Shall we ask him why a man of sense and education, and who has lived in the world, is ill qualified to recommend himself to strangers?”

“I can answer your question,” said Cable, “Without applying to him. It is because he will not give himself the trouble.”

“I certainly have not the talent which some people possess,” said Lensherr, “Of conversing easily with those I have never seen before. I cannot catch their tone of conversation, or appear interested in their concerns, as I often see done.”

“My fingers,” said Charles, “Do not move over this instrument in the masterly manner which I see so many men's do. They have not the same force or rapidity, and do not produce the same expression. But then I have always supposed it to be my own fault—because I will not take the trouble of practising. It is not that I do not believe  _my_  fingers as capable as any other man's of superior execution.”

Lensherr smiled and said, “You are perfectly right. You have employed your time much better. No one admitted to the privilege of hearing you can think anything wanting. We neither of us perform to strangers.”

Here they were interrupted by Lady Jean, who called out to know what they were talking of. Charles immediately began playing again. Lady Jean approached, and, after listening for a few minutes, said to Lensherr:

“Mr. Xavier would not play at all amiss if he practised more, and could have the advantage of a London master. He has a very good notion of fingering, though his taste is not equal to Rachel's. Rachel would have been a delightful performer, had her health allowed her to learn."

Charles looked at Lensherr to see how cordially he assented to his cousin's praise; but neither at that moment nor at any other could he discern any symptom of love; and from the whole of his behaviour to Miss de Grey he derived this comfort for Mr. Janos, that he might have been just as likely to marry  _her_ , had she been his relation.

Lady Jean continued her remarks on Charles's performance, mixing with them many instructions on execution and taste. Charles received them with all the forbearance of civility, and, at the request of the gentlemen, remained at the instrument till her ladyship's carriage was ready to take them all home.

 

* * *

**Chapter 9**

Charles was sitting by himself the next morning, and writing to Raven while Mr. Alex and Gabriel were gone on business into the village, when he was startled by a ring at the door, the certain signal of a visitor. As he had heard no carriage, he thought it not unlikely to be Lady Jean, and under that apprehension was putting away his half-finished letter that he might escape all impertinent questions, when the door opened, and, to her very great surprise, Mr. Lensherr, and Mr. Lensherr only, entered the room.

He seemed astonished too on finding her alone, and apologised for his intrusion by letting her know that he had understood all the gentlemen were to be within.

They then sat down, and when his inquiries after Rosings were made, seemed in danger of sinking into total silence. It was absolutely necessary, therefore, to think of something, and in this emergence recollecting  _when_  he had seen him last in Hertfordshire, and feeling curious to know what he would say on the subject of their hasty departure, he observed:

“How very suddenly you all quitted Netherfield last November, Mr. Lensherr! It must have been a most agreeable surprise to Mr. McCoy to see you all after him so soon; for, if I recollect right, he went but the day before. He and his brothers were well, I hope, when you left London?”

“Perfectly so, I thank you.”

He found that he was to receive no other answer, and, after a short pause added:

“I think I have understood that Mr. McCoy has not much idea of ever returning to Netherfield again?”

“I have never heard him say so; but it is probable that he may spend very little of his time there in the future. He has many friends, and is at a time of life when friends and engagements are continually increasing.”

“If he means to be but little at Netherfield, it would be better for the neighbourhood that he should give up the place entirely, for then we might possibly get a settled family there. But, perhaps, Mr. McCoy did not take the house so much for the convenience of the neighbourhood as for his own, and we must expect him to keep it or quit it on the same principle.”

“I should not be surprised,” said Lensherr, “If he were to give it up as soon as any eligible purchase offers.”

Charles made no answer. He was afraid of talking longer of his friend; and, having nothing else to say, was now determined to leave the trouble of finding a subject to him.

He took the hint, and soon began with, “This seems a very comfortable house. Lady Jean, I believe, did a great deal to it when Mr. Cassidy first came to Hunsford.”

“I believe she did—and I am sure she could not have bestowed her kindness on a more grateful object.”

“Mr. Cassidy appears to be very fortunate in his choice of a husband.”

“Yes, indeed, his friends may well rejoice in his having met with one of the very few sensible men who would have accepted him, or have made him happy if they had. My friend has an excellent understanding—though I am not certain that I consider his marrying Mr. Cassidy as the wisest thing he ever did. He seems perfectly happy, however, and in a prudential light it is certainly a very good match for him.”

“It must be very agreeable for him to be settled within so easy a distance of her own family and friends.”

“An easy distance, do you call it? It is nearly fifty miles.”

“And what is fifty miles of good road? Little more than half a day's journey. Yes, I call it a  _very_  easy distance.”

“I should never have considered the distance as one of the  _advantages_  of the match,” cried Charles. “I should never have said Mr. Alex was settled  _near_  his family.”

“It is a proof of your own attachment to Hertfordshire. Anything beyond the very neighbourhood of Longbourn, I suppose, would appear far.”

As he spoke there was a sort of smile which Charles fancied he understood; he must be supposing him to be thinking of Raven and Netherfield, and he blushed as he answered:

“I do not mean to say that a person may not be settled too near her family. The far and the near must be relative, and depend on many varying circumstances. Where there is fortune to make the expenses of travelling unimportant, distance becomes no evil. But that is not the case  _here_. Mr. and Mr. Cassidy have a comfortable income, but not such a one as will allow of frequent journeys—and I am persuaded my friend would not call himself  _near_  his family under less than  _half_  the present distance.”

Mr. Lensherr drew his chair a little towards her, and said, “ _You_  cannot have a right to such very strong local attachment.  _You_  cannot have been always at Longbourn.”

Charles looked surprised. The gentleman experienced some change of feeling; he drew back his chair, took a newspaper from the table, and glancing over it, said, in a colder voice:

“Are you pleased with Kent?”

A short dialogue on the subject of the country ensued, on either side calm and concise—and soon put an end to by the entrance of Alex and his brother, just returned from his walk. The tete-a-tete surprised them. Mr. Lensherr related the mistake which had occasioned his intruding on Mr. Xavier, and after sitting a few minutes longer without saying much to anybody, went away.

“What can be the meaning of this?” said Alex, as soon as he was gone. “My dear, Charles, he must be in love with you, or he would never have called us in this familiar way.”

But when Charles told of his silence, it did not seem very likely, even to Alex's wishes, to be the case; and after various conjectures, they could at last only suppose his visit to proceed from the difficulty of finding anything to do, which was the more probable from the time of year. All field sports were over. Within doors there was Lady Jean, books, and a billiard-table, but gentlemen cannot always be within doors; and in the nearness of the Parsonage, or the pleasantness of the walk to it, or of the people who lived in it, the two cousins found a temptation from this period of walking thither almost every day. They called at various times of the morning, sometimes separately, sometimes together, and now and then accompanied by their aunt. It was plain to them all that Colonel Cable came because he had pleasure in their society, a persuasion which of course recommended him still more; and Charles was reminded by his own satisfaction in being with him, as well as by his evident admiration of him, of his former favourite George Shaw; and though, in comparing them, he saw there was less captivating softness in Colonel Cable's manners, he believed he might have the best informed mind.

But why Mr. Lensherr came so often to the Parsonage, it was more difficult to understand. It could not be for society, as he frequently sat there ten minutes together without opening his lips; and when he did speak, it seemed the effect of necessity rather than of choice—a sacrifice to propriety, not a pleasure to himself. He seldom appeared really animated. Mr. Alex knew not what to make of him. Colonel Cable's occasionally laughing at his stupidity, proved that he was generally different, which his own knowledge of him could not have told him; and as he would liked to have believed this change the effect of love, and the object of that love his friend Charles, he set herself seriously to work to find it out. Alex watched him whenever they were at Rosings, and whenever he came to Hunsford; but without much success. Lensherr certainly looked at his friend a great deal, but the expression of that look was disputable. It was an earnest, steadfast gaze, but he often doubted whether there were much admiration in it, and sometimes it seemed nothing but absence of mind.

He had once or twice suggested to Charles the possibility of his being partial to him, but Charles always laughed at the idea; and Mr. Alex did not think it right to press the subject, from the danger of raising expectations which might only end in disappointment; for in his opinion it admitted not of a doubt, that all his friend's dislike would vanish, if he could suppose him to be in his power.

In his kind schemes for Charles, he sometimes planned him marrying Colonel Cable. He was beyond comparison the most pleasant man; he certainly admired him, and his situation in life was most eligible; but, to counterbalance these advantages, Mr. Lensherr had considerable patronage in the church, and his cousin could have none at all.


	12. Volume II: Chapters 10 - 12

**Chapter 10**

More than once did Charles, in his ramble within the park, unexpectedly meet Mr. Lensherr. He felt all the perverseness of the mischance that should bring him where no one else was brought, and, to prevent its ever happening again, took care to inform him at first that it was a favourite haunt of his. How it could occur a second time, therefore, was very odd! Yet it did, and even a third. It seemed like wilful ill-nature, or a voluntary penance, for on these occasions it was not merely a few formal inquiries and an awkward pause and then away, but he actually thought it necessary to turn back and walk with him. He never said a great deal, nor did he give himself the trouble of talking or of listening much; but it struck him in the course of their third rencontre that he was asking some odd unconnected questions—about his pleasure in being at Hunsford, his love of solitary walks, and his opinion of Mr. and Mr. Cassidy's happiness; and that in speaking of Rosings and his not perfectly understanding the house, he seemed to expect that whenever he came into Kent again he would be staying  _there_  too. His words seemed to imply it. Could he have Colonel Cable in his thoughts? Charles supposed, if Lensherr meant anything, he must mean an allusion to what might arise in that quarter. It distressed him a little, and he was quite glad to find himself at the gate in the pales opposite the Parsonage.

He was engaged one day as she walked, in perusing Raven's last letter, and dwelling on some passages which proved that Raven had not written in spirits, when, instead of being again surprised by Mr. Lensherr, he saw on looking up that Colonel Cable was meeting him. Putting away the letter immediately and forcing a smile, he said:

“I did not know before that you ever walked this way.”

“I have been making the tour of the park,” He replied, “As I generally do every year, and intend to close it with a call at the Parsonage. Are you going much farther?”

“No, I should have turned in a moment.”

And accordingly she did turn, and they walked towards the Parsonage together.

“Do you certainly leave Kent on Saturday?” said she.

“Yes—if Lensherr does not put it off again. But I am at his disposal. He arranges the business just as he pleases.”

“And if not able to please himself in the arrangement, he has at least pleasure in the great power of choice. I do not know anybody who seems more to enjoy the power of doing what he likes than Mr. Lensherr.”

“He likes to have his own way very well,” replied Colonel Cable. “But so we all do. It is only that he has better means of having it than many others, because he is rich, and many others are poor. I speak feelingly. A younger son, you know, must be inured to self-denial and dependence.”

“In my opinion, the younger son of an earl can know very little of either. Now seriously, what have you ever known of self-denial and dependence? When have you been prevented by want of money from going wherever you chose, or procuring anything you had a fancy for?”

“These are home questions—and perhaps I cannot say that I have experienced many hardships of that nature. But in matters of greater weight, I may suffer from want of money. Younger sons cannot marry where they like.”

“Unless where they like women of fortune, which I think they very often do.”

“Our habits of expense make us too dependent, and there are not many in my rank of life who can afford to marry without some attention to money.”

 _“Is this,”_ thought Charles, _“Meant for me?”_ and he coloured at the idea; but, recovering himself, said in a lively tone, “And pray, what is the usual price of an earl's younger son? Unless the elder brother is very sickly, I suppose you would not ask above fifty thousand pounds.”

He answered him in the same style, and the subject dropped. To interrupt a silence which might make him fancy Charles affected with what had passed, he soon afterwards said:

“I imagine your cousin brought you down with him chiefly for the sake of having someone at his disposal. I wonder he does not marry, to secure a lasting convenience of that kind. But, perhaps, his sister does as well for the present, and, as she is under his sole care, he may do what he likes with her.”

“No,” said Colonel Cable, “That is an advantage which he must divide with me. I am joined with him in the guardianship of Miss Lensherr.”

“Are you indeed? And pray what sort of guardians do you make? Does your charge give you much trouble? Young ladies of her age are sometimes a little difficult to manage, and if she has the true Lensherr spirit, she may like to have her own way.”

As he spoke he observed Colonel Cable looking at her earnestly; and the manner in which he immediately asked him why he supposed Miss Lensherr likely to give them any uneasiness, convinced him that he had somehow or other got pretty near the truth. He directly replied:

“You need not be frightened. I never heard any harm of her; and I dare say she is one of the most tractable creatures in the world. She is a very great favourite with some ladies of my acquaintance, Mr. Muñoz and Mr. Janos. I think I have heard you say that you know them."

“I know them a little. Their brother is a pleasant gentlemanlike man—he is a great friend of Lensherr's.”

“Oh! Yes,” said Charles drily; “Mr. Lensherr is uncommonly kind to Mr. McCoy, and takes a prodigious deal of care of him.”

“Care of him! Yes, I really believe Lensherr  _does_  take care of him in those points where he most wants care. From something that he told me in our journey hither, I have reason to think McCoy very much indebted to him. But I ought to beg his pardon, for I have no right to suppose that McCoy was the person meant. It was all conjecture.”

“What is it you mean?”

“It is a circumstance which Lensherr could not wish to be generally known, because if it were to get round to the lady's family, it would be an unpleasant thing.”

“You may depend upon my not mentioning it.”

“And remember that I have not much reason for supposing it to be McCoy. What he told me was merely this: that he congratulated himself on having lately saved a friend from the inconveniences of a most imprudent marriage, but without mentioning names or any other particulars, and I only suspected it to be McCoy from believing him the kind of young man to get into a scrape of that sort, and from knowing them to have been together the whole of last summer.”

“Did Mr. Lensherr give you reasons for this interference?”

“I understood that there were some very strong objections against the lady.”

“And what arts did he use to separate them?”

“He did not talk to me of his own arts,” said Cable, smiling. “He only told me what I have now told you.”

Charles made no answer, and walked on, his heart swelling with indignation. After watching him a little, Cable asked him why he was so thoughtful.

“I am thinking of what you have been telling me,” said he. “Your cousin's conduct does not suit my feelings. Why was he to be the judge?”

“You are rather disposed to call his interference officious?”

“I do not see what right Mr. Lensherr had to decide on the propriety of his friend's inclination, or why, upon his own judgement alone, he was to determine and direct in what manner his friend was to be happy. But,” He continued, recollecting himself, “As we know none of the particulars, it is not fair to condemn him. It is not to be supposed that there was much affection in the case.”

“That is not an unnatural surmise,” said Cable, “But it is a lessening of the honour of my cousin's triumph very sadly.”

This was spoken jestingly; but it appeared to him so just a picture of Mr. Lensherr, that he would not trust herself with an answer, and therefore, abruptly changing the conversation talked on indifferent matters until they reached the Parsonage. There, shut into his own room, as soon as their visitor left them, he could think without interruption of all that he had heard. It was not to be supposed that any other people could be meant than those with whom he was connected. There could not exist in the world  _two_  men over whom Mr. Lensherr could have such boundless influence. That he had been concerned in the measures taken to separate McCoy and Raven he had never doubted; but he had always attributed to Mr. Janos the principal design and arrangement of them. If his own vanity, however, did not mislead him,  _he_  was the cause, his pride and caprice were the cause, of all that Raven had suffered, and still continued to suffer. He had ruined for a while every hope of happiness for the most affectionate, generous heart in the world; and no one could say how lasting an evil he might have inflicted.

 _“There were some very strong objections against the lady,”_ were Colonel Cable's words; and those strong objections probably were, her having one uncle who was a country attorney, and another who was in business in London.

“To Raven herself,” He exclaimed, “There could be no possibility of objection; all loveliness and goodness as she is!—her understanding excellent, her mind improved, and her manners captivating. Neither could anything be urged against my father, who, though with some peculiarities, has abilities Mr. Lensherr himself need not disdain, and respectability which he will probably never reach.” When he thought of her mother, his confidence gave way a little; but he would not allow that any objections  _there_  had material weight with Mr. Lensherr, whose pride, he was convinced, would receive a deeper wound from the want of importance in his friend's connections, than from their want of sense; and he was quite decided, at last, that he had been partly governed by this worst kind of pride, and partly by the wish of retaining Mr. McCoy for his brother.

The agitation and tears which the subject occasioned, brought on a headache; and it grew so much worse towards the evening, that, added to her unwillingness to see Mr. Lensherr, it determined him not to attend her cousins to Rosings, where they were engaged to drink tea. Mr. Alex, seeing that he was really unwell, did not press him to go and as much as possible prevented his husband from pressing her; but Mr. Cassidy could not conceal his apprehension of Lady Jean's being rather displeased by him staying at home.

 

* * *

 

**Chapter 11**

When they were gone, Charles, as if intending to exasperate himself as much as possible against Mr. Lensherr, chose for his employment the examination of all the letters which Raven had written to him since him being in Kent. They contained no actual complaint, nor was there any revival of past occurrences, or any communication of present suffering. But in all, and in almost every line of each, there was a want of that cheerfulness which had been used to characterise her style, and which, proceeding from the serenity of a mind at ease with itself and kindly disposed towards everyone, had been scarcely ever clouded. Charles noticed every sentence conveying the idea of uneasiness, with an attention which it had hardly received on the first perusal. Mr. Lensherr's shameful boast of what misery he had been able to inflict, gave him a keener sense of his sister's sufferings. It was some consolation to think that his visit to Rosings was to end on the day after the next—and, a still greater, that in less than a fortnight he should herself be with Raven again, and enabled to contribute to the recovery of his spirits, by all that affection could do.

He could not think of Lensherr's leaving Kent without remembering that his cousin was to go with him; but Colonel Cable had made it clear that he had no intentions at all, and agreeable as he was, Charles did not mean to be unhappy about him.

While settling this point, he was suddenly roused by the sound of the door-bell, and her spirits were a little fluttered by the idea of its being Colonel Cable himself, who had once before called late in the evening, and might now come to inquire particularly after him. But this idea was soon banished, and his spirits were very differently affected, when, to his utter amazement, he saw Mr. Lensherr walk into the room. In a hurried manner he immediately began an inquiry after his health, imputing his visit to a wish of hearing that he were better. Charles answered him with cold civility. He sat down for a few moments, and then getting up, walked about the room. Charles was surprised, but said not a word. After a silence of several minutes, he came towards him in an agitated manner, and thus began:

“In vain I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”

Charles's astonishment was beyond expression. He stared, coloured, doubted, and was silent. This he considered sufficient encouragement; and the avowal of all that he felt, and had long felt for him, immediately followed. He spoke well; but there were feelings besides those of the heart to be detailed; and he was not more eloquent on the subject of tenderness than of pride. His sense of Charles’ inferiority—of its being a degradation—of the family obstacles which had always opposed to inclination, were dwelt on with a warmth which seemed due to the consequence he was wounding, but was very unlikely to recommend his suit.

In spite of his deeply-rooted dislike, he could not be insensible to the compliment of such a man's affection, and though his intentions did not vary for an instant, he was at first sorry for the pain he was to receive; till, roused to resentment by his subsequent language, he lost all compassion in anger. He tried, however, to compose himself to answer him with patience, when he should have done. He concluded with representing to him the strength of that attachment which, in spite of all his endeavours, he had found impossible to conquer; and with expressing his hope that it would now be rewarded by his acceptance of his hand. As he said this, he could easily see that he had no doubt of a favourable answer. He  _spoke_  of apprehension and anxiety, but his countenance expressed real security. Such a circumstance could only exasperate farther, and, when he ceased, the colour rose into his cheeks, and he said:

“In such cases as this, it is, I believe, the established mode to express a sense of obligation for the sentiments avowed, however unequally they may be returned. It is natural that obligation should be felt, and if I could  _feel_  gratitude, I would now thank you. But I cannot—I have never desired your good opinion, and you have certainly bestowed it most unwillingly. I am sorry to have occasioned pain to anyone. It has been most unconsciously done, however, and I hope will be of short duration. The feelings which, you tell me, have long prevented the acknowledgment of your regard, can have little difficulty in overcoming it after this explanation.”

Mr. Lensherr, who was leaning against the mantelpiece with his eyes fixed on her face, seemed to catch her words with no less resentment than surprise. His complexion became pale with anger, and the disturbance of his mind was visible in every feature. He was struggling for the appearance of composure, and would not open his lips till he believed himself to have attained it. The pause was to Charles's feelings dreadful. At length, with a voice of forced calmness, he said:

“And this is all the reply which I am to have the honour of expecting! I might, perhaps, wish to be informed why, with so little  _endeavour_  at civility, I am thus rejected. But it is of small importance.”

“I might as well inquire,” replied he, “Why with so evident a desire of offending and insulting me, you chose to tell me that you liked me against your will, against your reason, and even against your character? Was not this some excuse for incivility, if I  _was_ uncivil? But I have other provocations. You know I have. Had not my feelings decided against you—had they been indifferent, or had they even been favourable, do you think that any consideration would tempt me to accept the man who has been the means of ruining, perhaps for ever, the happiness of a most beloved sister?”

As she pronounced these words, Mr. Lensherr changed colour; but the emotion was short, and he listened without attempting to interrupt him while he continued:

“I have every reason in the world to think ill of you. No motive can excuse the unjust and ungenerous part you acted  _there_. You dare not, you cannot deny, that you have been the principal, if not the only means of dividing them from each other—of exposing one to the censure of the world for caprice and instability, and the other to its derision for disappointed hopes, and involving them both in misery of the acutest kind.”

He paused, and saw with no slight indignation that he was listening with an air which proved him wholly unmoved by any feeling of remorse. He even looked at Charles with a smile of affected incredulity.

“Can you deny that you have done it?” He repeated.

With assumed tranquillity he then replied: “I have no wish of denying that I did everything in my power to separate my friend from your sister, or that I rejoice in my success. Towards  _him_  I have been kinder than towards myself.”

Charles disdained the appearance of noticing this civil reflection, but its meaning did not escape, nor was it likely to conciliate him.

“But it is not merely this affair,” He continued, “On which my dislike is founded. Long before it had taken place my opinion of you was decided. Your character was unfolded in the recital which I received many months ago from Mr. Shaw. On this subject, what can you have to say? In what imaginary act of friendship can you here defend yourself? Or under what misrepresentation can you here impose upon others?”

“You take an eager interest in that gentleman's concerns," said Lensherr, in a less tranquil tone, and with a heightened colour.

“Who that knows what his misfortunes have been, can help feeling an interest in him?”

“His misfortunes!” repeated Lensherr contemptuously; “Yes, his misfortunes have been great indeed.”

“And of your infliction,” cried Charles with energy. “You have reduced him to his present state of poverty—comparative poverty. You have withheld the advantages which you must know to have been designed for him. You have deprived the best years of his life of that independence which was no less his due than his desert. You have done all this! And yet you can treat the mention of his misfortune with contempt and ridicule.”

“And this,” cried Lensherr, as he walked with quick steps across the room, “Is your opinion of me! This is the estimation in which you hold me! I thank you for explaining it so fully. My faults, according to this calculation, are heavy indeed! But perhaps,” added he, stopping in his walk, and turning towards Charles, “These offenses might have been overlooked, had not your pride been hurt by my honest confession of the scruples that had long prevented my forming any serious design. These bitter accusations might have been suppressed, had I, with greater policy, concealed my struggles, and flattered you into the belief of my being impelled by unqualified, unalloyed inclination; by reason, by reflection, by everything. But disguise of every sort is my abhorrence. Nor am I ashamed of the feelings I related. They were natural and just. Could you expect me to rejoice in the inferiority of your connections?—to congratulate myself on the hope of relations, whose condition in life is so decidedly beneath my own?”

Charles felt himself growing more angry every moment; yet he tried to the utmost to speak with composure when he said:

“You are mistaken, Mr. Lensherr, if you suppose that the mode of your declaration affected me in any other way, than as it spared me the concern which I might have felt in refusing you, had you behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner.”

He saw him start at this, but he said nothing, and he continued:

“You could not have made the offer of your hand in any possible way that would have tempted me to accept it.”

Again his astonishment was obvious; and he looked at Charles with an expression of mingled incredulity and mortification. He went on:

“From the very beginning—from the first moment, I may almost say—of my acquaintance with you, your manners, impressing me with the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of the feelings of others, were such as to form the groundwork of disapprobation on which succeeding events have built so immovable a dislike; and I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry.”

“You have said quite enough, sir. I perfectly comprehend your feelings, and have now only to be ashamed of what my own have been. Forgive me for having taken up so much of your time, and accept my best wishes for your health and happiness.”

And with these words he hastily left the room, and Charles heard him the next moment open the front door and quit the house.

The tumult of his mind, was now painfully great. It created such an environment of hostility that he lost control of the tight leash he had on his power. As such, he was flooded with thoughts and feelings and emotions from all sorts of people. Charles had no idea how powerful his ability was, but he couldn’t make out _any_ words or specific emotions, the cacophony was so great. Sadness, more sadness than Charles had ever thought possible, anger, and overwhelming disbelief touched his mind and Charles flinched as he sensed Lensherr, somehow picking him out from the maddeningly loud chorus in his mind. It was _that_ touch, _that_ connection, that allowed Charles to reign his power back under his control, leaving him with nothing more than anger and astonishment he had originally felt and an ache that filled his mind.

He knew not how to support himself, and from actual weakness sat down and cried for half-an-hour. His astonishment, as he reflected on what had passed, was increased by every review of it. That he should receive an offer of marriage from Mr. Lensherr! That he should have been in love with him for so many months! So much in love as to wish to marry him in spite of all the objections which had made him prevent his friend's marrying his sister, and which must appear at least with equal force in his own case—was almost incredible! It was gratifying to have inspired unconsciously so strong an affection. But his pride, his abominable pride—his shameless avowal of what he had done with respect to Raven—his unpardonable assurance in acknowledging, though he could not justify it, and the unfeeling manner in which he had mentioned Mr. Shaw, his cruelty towards whom he had not attempted to deny, soon overcame the pity which the consideration of his attachment had for a moment excited. Charles continued in very agitated reflections till the sound of Lady Jean's carriage made him feel how unequal he was to encounter Alex's observation, and hurried him away to his room.

 

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**Chapter 12**

Charles awoke the next morning to the same thoughts and meditations which had at length closed his eyes. He could not yet recover from the surprise of what had happened; it was impossible to think of anything else; and, totally indisposed for employment, he resolved, soon after breakfast, to indulge himself in air and exercise. He was proceeding directly to his favourite walk, when the recollection of Mr. Lensherr's sometimes coming there stopped him, and instead of entering the park, he turned up the lane, which led farther from the turnpike-road. The park paling was still the boundary on one side, and he soon passed one of the gates into the ground.

After walking two or three times along that part of the lane, he was tempted, by the pleasantness of the morning, to stop at the gates and look into the park. The five weeks which she had now passed in Kent had made a great difference in the country, and every day was adding to the verdure of the early trees. He was on the point of continuing his walk, when he caught a glimpse of a gentleman within the sort of grove which edged the park; he was moving that way; and, fearful of its being Mr. Lensherr, he was directly retreating. But the person who advanced was now near enough to see him, and stepping forward with eagerness, pronounced his name. He had turned away; but on hearing himself called, though in a voice which proved it to be Mr. Lensherr, she moved again towards the gate. He had by that time reached it also, and, holding out a letter, which he instinctively took, said, with a look of haughty composure, “I have been walking in the grove some time in the hope of meeting you. Will you do me the honour of reading that letter?” And then, with a slight bow, turned again into the plantation, and was soon out of sight.

With no expectation of pleasure, but with the strongest curiosity, Charles opened the letter, and, to his still increasing wonder, perceived an envelope containing two sheets of letter-paper, written quite through, in a very close hand. The envelope itself was likewise full. Pursuing her way along the lane, she then began it. It was dated from Rosings, at eight o'clock in the morning, and was as follows:—

_Be not alarmed, sir, on receiving this letter, by the apprehension of its containing any repetition of those sentiments or renewal of those offers which were last night so disgusting to you. I write without any intention of paining you, or humbling myself, by dwelling on wishes which, for the happiness of both, cannot be too soon forgotten; and the effort which the formation and the perusal of this letter must occasion, should have been spared, had not my character required it to be written and read. You must, therefore, pardon the freedom with which I demand your attention; your feelings, I know, will bestow it unwillingly, but I demand it of your justice._

_Two offenses of a very different nature, and by no means of equal magnitude, you last night laid to my charge. The first mentioned was, that, regardless of the sentiments of either, I had detached Mr. McCoy from your sister, and the other, that I had, in defiance of various claims, in defiance of honour and humanity, ruined the immediate prosperity and blasted the prospects of Mr. Shaw. Wilfully and wantonly to have thrown off the companion of my youth, the acknowledged favourite of my father, a young man who had scarcely any other dependence than on our patronage, and who had been brought up to expect its exertion, would be a depravity, to which the separation of two young persons, whose affection could be the growth of only a few weeks, could bear no comparison. But from the severity of that blame which was last night so liberally bestowed, respecting each circumstance, I shall hope to be in the future secured, when the following account of my actions and their motives has been read. If, in the explanation of them, which is due to myself, I am under the necessity of relating feelings which may be offensive to yours, I can only say that I am sorry. The necessity must be obeyed, and further apology would be absurd._

_I had not been long in Hertfordshire, before I saw, in common with others, that McCoy preferred your elder sister to any other young person in the country. But it was not till the evening of the dance at Netherfield that I had any apprehension of his feeling a serious attachment. I had often seen him in love before. At that ball, while I had the honour of dancing with you, I was first made acquainted, by Sir Christopher Summers's accidental information, that McCoy's attentions to your sister had given rise to a general expectation of their marriage. He spoke of it as a certain event, of which the time alone could be undecided. From that moment I observed my friend's behaviour attentively; and I could then perceive that his partiality for Miss Xavier was beyond what I had ever witnessed in him. Your sister I also watched. Her look and manners were open, cheerful, and engaging as ever, but without any symptom of peculiar regard, and I remained convinced from the evening's scrutiny, that though she received his attentions with pleasure, she did not invite them by any participation of sentiment._

_If you have not been mistaken here, I must have been in error. Your superior knowledge of your sister must make the latter probable. If it be so, if I have been misled by such error to inflict pain on her, your resentment has not been unreasonable. But I shall not scruple to assert, that the serenity of your sister's countenance and air was such as might have given the most acute observer a conviction that, however amiable her temper, her heart was not likely to be easily touched. That I was desirous of believing her indifferent is certain—but I will venture to say that my investigation and decisions are not usually influenced by my hopes or fears. I did not believe her to be indifferent because I wished it; I believed it on impartial conviction, as truly as I wished it in reason. My objections to the marriage were not merely those which I last night acknowledged to have the utmost force of passion to put aside, in my own case; the want of connection could not be so great an evil to my friend as to me. But there were other causes of repugnance; causes which, though still existing, and existing to an equal degree in both instances, I had myself endeavoured to forget, because they were not immediately before me. These causes must be stated, though briefly. The situation of your mother's family, though objectionable, was nothing in comparison to that total want of propriety so frequently, so almost uniformly betrayed by herself, by your three younger siblings, and occasionally even by your father. Pardon me. It pains me to offend you. But amidst your concern for the defects of your nearest relations, and your displeasure at this representation of them, let it give you consolation to consider that, to have conducted yourselves so as to avoid any share of the like censure, is praise no less generally bestowed on you and your elder sister, than it is honourable to the sense and disposition of both. I will only say farther that from what passed that evening, my opinion of all parties was confirmed, and every inducement heightened which could have led me before, to preserve my friend from what I esteemed a most unhappy connection. He left Netherfield for London, on the day following, as you, I am certain, remember, with the design of soon returning._

_The part which I acted is now to be explained. His brothers' uneasiness had been equally excited with my own; our coincidence of feeling was soon discovered, and, alike sensible that no time was to be lost in detaching their brother, we shortly resolved on joining him directly in London. We accordingly went—and there I readily engaged in the office of pointing out to my friend the certain evils of such a choice. I described, and enforced them earnestly. But, however this remonstrance might have staggered or delayed his determination, I do not suppose that it would ultimately have prevented the marriage, had it not been seconded by the assurance that I hesitated not in giving, of your sister's indifference. He had before believed her to return his affection with sincere, if not with equal regard. But McCoy has great natural modesty, with a stronger dependence on my judgement than on his own. To convince him, therefore, that he had deceived himself, was no very difficult point. To persuade him against returning into Hertfordshire, when that conviction had been given, was scarcely the work of a moment. I cannot blame myself for having done thus much. There is but one part of my conduct in the whole affair on which I do not reflect with satisfaction; it is that I condescended to adopt the measures of art so far as to conceal from him your sister's being in town. I knew it myself, as it was known to Mr. Janos; but his brother is even yet ignorant of it. That they might have met without ill consequence is perhaps probable; but his regard did not appear to me enough extinguished for him to see her without some danger. Perhaps this concealment, this disguise was beneath me; it is done, however, and it was done for the best. On this subject I have nothing more to say, no other apology to offer. If I have wounded your sister's feelings, it was unknowingly done and though the motives which governed me may to you very naturally appear insufficient, I have not yet learnt to condemn them._

_With respect to that other, more weighty accusation, of having injured Mr. Shaw, I can only refute it by laying before you the whole of his connection with my family. Of what he has particularly accused me I am ignorant; but of the truth of what I shall relate, I can summon more than one witness of undoubted veracity._

_Mr. Shaw is the son of a very respectable man, who had for many years the management of all the Pemberley estates, and whose good conduct in the discharge of his trust naturally inclined my father to be of service to him; and on George Shaw, who was his godson, his kindness was therefore liberally bestowed. My father supported him at school, and afterwards at Cambridge—most important assistance, as his own father, always poor from the extravagance of his wife, would have been unable to give him a gentleman's education. My father was not only fond of this young man's society, whose manners were always engaging; he had also the highest opinion of him, and hoping the church would be his profession, intended to provide for him in it. As for myself, it is many, many years since I first began to think of him in a very different manner. The vicious propensities—the want of principle, which he was careful to guard from the knowledge of his best friend, could not escape the observation of a young man of nearly the same age with himself, and who had opportunities of seeing him in unguarded moments, which Mr. Lensherr could not have. Here again I shall give you pain—to what degree you only can tell. But whatever may be the sentiments which Mr. Shaw has created, a suspicion of their nature shall not prevent me from unfolding his real character—it adds even another motive._

_My excellent father died about five years ago; and his attachment to Mr. Shaw was to the last so steady, that in his will he particularly recommended it to me, to promote his advancement in the best manner that his profession might allow—and if he took orders, desired that a valuable family living might be his as soon as it became vacant. There was also a legacy of one thousand pounds. His own father did not long survive mine, and within half a year from these events, Mr. Shaw wrote to inform me that, having finally resolved against taking orders, he hoped I should not think it unreasonable for him to expect some more immediate pecuniary advantage, in lieu of the preferment, by which he could not be benefited. He had some intention, he added, of studying law, and I must be aware that the interest of one thousand pounds would be a very insufficient support therein. I rather wished, than believed him to be sincere; but, at any rate, was perfectly ready to accede to his proposal. I knew that Mr. Shaw ought not to be a clergyman; the business was therefore soon settled—he resigned all claim to assistance in the church, were it possible that he could ever be in a situation to receive it, and accepted in return three thousand pounds. All connection between us seemed now dissolved. I thought too ill of him to invite him to Pemberley, or admit his society in town. In town I believe he chiefly lived, but his studying the law was a mere pretence, and being now free from all restraint, his life was a life of idleness and dissipation. For about three years I heard little of him; but on the decease of the incumbent of the living which had been designed for him, he applied to me again by letter for the presentation. His circumstances, he assured me, and I had no difficulty in believing it, were exceedingly bad. He had found the law a most unprofitable study, and was now absolutely resolved on being ordained, if I would present him to the living in question—of which he trusted there could be little doubt, as he was well assured that I had no other person to provide for, and I could not have forgotten my revered father's intentions. You will hardly blame me for refusing to comply with this entreaty, or for resisting every repetition to it. His resentment was in proportion to the distress of his circumstances—and he was doubtless as violent in his abuse of me to others as in his reproaches to myself. After this period every appearance of acquaintance was dropped. How he lived I know not. But last summer he was again most painfully obtruded on my notice._

_I must now mention a circumstance which I would wish to forget myself, and which no obligation less than the present should induce me to unfold to any human being. Having said thus much, I feel no doubt of your secrecy. My sister, who is more than ten years my junior, was left to the guardianship of my mother's nephew, Colonel Cable, and myself. About a year ago, she was taken from school, and an establishment formed for her in London; and last summer she went with the lady who presided over it, to Ramsgate; and thither also went Mr. Shaw, undoubtedly by design; for there proved to have been a prior acquaintance between him and Mrs. Younge, in whose character we were most unhappily deceived; and by her connivance and aid, he so far recommended himself to Moira, whose affectionate heart retained a strong impression of his kindness to her as a child, that she was persuaded to believe herself in love, and to consent to an elopement. She was then but fifteen, which must be her excuse; and after stating her imprudence, I am happy to add, that I owed the knowledge of it to herself. I joined them unexpectedly a day or two before the intended elopement, and then Moira, unable to support the idea of grieving and offending a brother whom she almost looked up to as a father, acknowledged the whole to me. You may imagine what I felt and how I acted. Regard for my sister's credit and feelings prevented any public exposure; but I wrote to Mr. Shaw, who left the place immediately, and Mrs. Younge was of course removed from her charge. Mr. Shaw's chief object was unquestionably my sister's fortune, which is thirty thousand pounds; but I cannot help supposing that the hope of revenging himself on me was a strong inducement. His revenge would have been complete indeed._

_This, sir, is a faithful narrative of every event in which we have been concerned together; and if you do not absolutely reject it as false, you will, I hope, acquit me henceforth of cruelty towards Mr. Shaw. I know not in what manner, under what form of falsehood he had imposed on you; but his success is not perhaps to be wondered at. Ignorant as you previously were of everything concerning either, detection could not be in your power, and suspicion certainly not in your inclination._

_You may possibly wonder why all this was not told you last night; but I was not then master enough of myself to know what could or ought to be revealed. For the truth of everything here related, I can appeal more particularly to the testimony of Colonel Cable, who, from our near relationship and constant intimacy, and, still more, as one of the executors of my father's will, has been unavoidably acquainted with every particular of these transactions. If your abhorrence of me should make my assertions valueless, you cannot be prevented by the same cause from confiding in my cousin; and that there may be the possibility of consulting him, I shall endeavour to find some opportunity of putting this letter in your hands in the course of the morning. I will only add, God bless you._

_ERIK LENSHERR_


	13. Volume II: Chapters 13 - 15

**Chapter 13**

If Charles, when Mr. Lensherr gave him the letter, did not expect it to contain a renewal of his offers, he had formed no expectation at all of its contents. But such as they were, it may well be supposed how eagerly he went through them, and what a contrariety of emotion they excited. His feelings as he read were scarcely to be defined. With amazement did he first understand that he believed any apology to be in his power; and steadfastly was Charles persuaded, that he could have no explanation to give, which a just sense of shame would not conceal. With a strong prejudice against everything he might say, he began his account of what had happened at Netherfield. He read with an eagerness which hardly left him power of comprehension, and from impatience of knowing what the next sentence might bring, was incapable of attending to the sense of the one before his eyes. His belief of his sister's insensibility he instantly resolved to be false; and his account of the real, the worst objections to the match, made him too angry to have any wish of doing him justice. He expressed no regret for what he had done which satisfied Charles; his style was not penitent, but haughty. It was all pride and insolence.

But when this subject was succeeded by his account of Mr. Shaw—when he read with somewhat clearer attention a relation of events which, if true, must overthrow every cherished opinion of his worth, and which bore so alarming an affinity to his own history of himself—his feelings were yet more acutely painful and more difficult of definition. Astonishment, apprehension, and even horror, oppressed him. He wished to discredit it entirely, repeatedly exclaiming, “This must be false! This cannot be! This must be the grossest falsehood!”—and when he had gone through the whole letter, though scarcely knowing anything of the last page or two, put it hastily away, protesting that he would not regard it, that he would never look in it again.

In this perturbed state of mind, with thoughts that could rest on nothing, he walked on; but it would not do; in half a minute the letter was unfolded again, and collecting himself as well as he could, he again began the mortifying perusal of all that related to Shaw, and commanded himself so far as to examine the meaning of every sentence. The account of his connection with the Pemberley family was exactly what he had related himself; and the kindness of the late Mr. Lensherr, though he had not before known its extent, agreed equally well with his own words. So far each recital confirmed the other; but when he came to the will, the difference was great. What Shaw had said of the living was fresh in his memory, and as he recalled his very words, it was impossible not to feel that there was gross duplicity on one side or the other; and, for a few moments, he flattered himself that his wishes did not err. But when he read and re-read with the closest attention, the particulars immediately following of Shaw's resigning all pretensions to the living, of his receiving in lieu so considerable a sum as three thousand pounds, again was he forced to hesitate. He put down the letter, weighed every circumstance with what he meant to be impartiality—deliberated on the probability of each statement—but with little success. On both sides it was only assertion. Again he read on; but every line proved more clearly that the affair, which he had believed it impossible that any contrivance could so represent as to render Mr. Lensherr's conduct in it less than infamous, was capable of a turn which must make him entirely blameless throughout the whole.

The extravagance and general profligacy which he scrupled not to lay at Mr. Shaw's charge, exceedingly shocked him; the more so, as he could bring no proof of its injustice. He had never heard of him before his entrance into the ——shire Militia, in which he had engaged at the persuasion of the young man who, on meeting him accidentally in town, had there renewed a slight acquaintance. Of his former way of life nothing had been known in Hertfordshire but what he told himself. As to his real character, had information been in his power, he had never felt a wish of inquiring. His countenance, voice, and manner had established him at once in the possession of every virtue. Charles tried to recollect some instance of goodness, some distinguished trait of integrity or benevolence, that might rescue him from the attacks of Mr. Lensherr; or at least, by the predominance of virtue, atone for those casual errors under which he would endeavour to class what Mr. Lensherr had described as the idleness and vice of many years' continuance. But no such recollection befriended him. Charles could see him instantly before himself, in every charm of air and address; but he could remember no more substantial good than the general approbation of the neighbourhood, and the regard which his social powers had gained him in the mess. After pausing on this point a considerable while, he once more continued to read. But, alas! the story which followed, of his designs on Miss Lensherr, received some confirmation from what had passed between Colonel Cable and himself only the morning before; and at last he was referred for the truth of every particular to Colonel Cable himself—from whom he had previously received the information of his near concern in all his cousin's affairs, and whose character he had no reason to question. At one time he had almost resolved on applying to him, but the idea was checked by the awkwardness of the application, and at length wholly banished by the conviction that Mr. Lensherr would never have hazarded such a proposal, if he had not been well assured of his cousin's corroboration.

Charles perfectly remembered everything that had passed in conversation between Shaw and himself, in their first evening at Mr. Munroe's. Many of his expressions were still fresh in her memory. He was  _now_  struck with the impropriety of such communications to a stranger, and wondered it had escaped her before. He saw the indelicacy of putting himself forward as Shaw had done, and the inconsistency of his professions with his conduct. Charles remembered that he had boasted of having no fear of seeing Mr. Lensherr—that Mr. Lensherr might leave the country, but that  _he_  should stand his ground; yet he had avoided the Netherfield ball the very next week. He remembered also that, till the Netherfield family had quitted the country, he had told his story to no one but himself; but that after their removal it had been everywhere discussed; that he had then no reserves, no scruples in sinking Mr. Lensherr's character, though he had assured him that respect for the father would always prevent his exposing the son.

How differently did everything now appear in which he was concerned! His attentions to Miss King were now the consequence of views solely and hatefully mercenary; and the mediocrity of her fortune proved no longer the moderation of his wishes, but his eagerness to grasp at anything. His behaviour to himself could now have had no tolerable motive; he had either been deceived with regard to his fortune, or had been gratifying his vanity by encouraging the preference which he believed he had most incautiously shown. Every lingering struggle in his favour grew fainter and fainter; and in farther justification of Mr. Lensherr, he could not but allow that Mr. McCoy, when questioned by Raven, had long ago asserted his blamelessness in the affair; that proud and repulsive as were his manners, he had never, in the whole course of their acquaintance—an acquaintance which had latterly brought them much together, and given him a sort of intimacy with his ways—seen anything that betrayed him to be unprincipled or unjust—anything that spoke him of irreligious or immoral habits; that among his own connections he was esteemed and valued—that even Shaw had allowed him merit as a brother, and that he had often heard him speak so affectionately of his sister as to prove him capable of  _some_ amiable feeling; that had his actions been what Mr. Shaw represented them, so gross a violation of everything right could hardly have been concealed from the world; and that friendship between a person capable of it, and such an amiable man as Mr. McCoy, was incomprehensible.

He grew absolutely ashamed of himself. Of neither Lensherr nor Shaw could she think without feeling she had been blind, partial, prejudiced, absurd.

“How despicably I have acted!” He cried; “I, who have prided myself on my discernment! I, who have valued myself on my abilities! Who have often disdained the generous candour of my sister, and gratified my vanity in useless or blameable mistrust! How humiliating is this discovery! Yet, how just a humiliation! Had I been in love, I could not have been more wretchedly blind! But vanity, not love, has been my folly. Pleased with the preference of one, and offended by the neglect of the other, on the very beginning of our acquaintance, I have courted prepossession and ignorance, and driven reason away, where either were concerned. Till this moment I never knew myself.”

From himself to Raven—from Raven to McCoy, his thoughts were in a line which soon brought to his recollection that Mr. Lensherr's explanation  _there_  had appeared very insufficient, and he read it again. Widely different was the effect of a second perusal. How could he deny that credit to his assertions in one instance, which he had been obliged to give in the other? He declared himself to be totally unsuspicious of his sister's attachment; and he could not help remembering what Alex's opinion had always been. Neither could he deny the justice of his description of Raven. He felt that Raven's feelings, though fervent, were little displayed, and that there was a constant complacency in her air and manner not often united with great sensibility.

When he came to that part of the letter in which her family were mentioned in terms of such mortifying, yet merited reproach, his sense of shame was severe. The justice of the charge struck him too forcibly for denial, and the circumstances to which he particularly alluded as having passed at the Netherfield ball, and as confirming all his first disapprobation, could not have made a stronger impression on his mind than on his.

The compliment to himself and his sister was not unfelt. It soothed, but it could not console him for the contempt which had thus been self-attracted by the rest of her family; and as he considered that Raven's disappointment had in fact been the work of his nearest relations, and reflected how materially the credit of both must be hurt by such impropriety of conduct, he felt depressed beyond anything he had ever known before.

After wandering along the lane for two hours, giving way to every variety of thought—re-considering events, determining probabilities, and reconciling himself, as well as he could, to a change so sudden and so important, fatigue, and a recollection of his long absence, made him at length return home; and he entered the house with the wish of appearing cheerful as usual, and the resolution of repressing such reflections as must make him unfit for conversation.

He was immediately told that the two gentlemen from Rosings had each called during her absence; Mr. Lensherr, only for a few minutes, to take leave—but that Colonel Cable had been sitting with them at least an hour, hoping for him return, and almost resolving to walk after him till he could be found. Charles could but just  _affect_  concern in missing him; he really rejoiced at it. Colonel Cable was no longer an object; he could think only of his letter.

 

* * *

 

**Chapter 14**

The two gentlemen left Rosings the next morning, and Mr. Cassidy having been in waiting near the lodges, to make them his parting obeisance, was able to bring home the pleasing intelligence, of their appearing in very good health, and in as tolerable spirits as could be expected, after the melancholy scene so lately gone through at Rosings. To Rosings he then hastened, to console Lady Jean and her daughter; and on his return brought back, with great satisfaction, a message from her ladyship, importing that she felt herself so dull as to make her very desirous of having them all to dine with her.

Charles could not see Lady Jean without recollecting that, had he chosen it, he might by this time have been presented to her as her future nephew; nor could he think, without a smile, of what her ladyship's indignation would have been. “What would she have said? How would she have behaved?” were questions with which he amused herself.

Their first subject was the diminution of the Rosings party. “I assure you, I feel it exceedingly,” said Lady Jean; “I believe no one feels the loss of friends so much as I do. But I am particularly attached to these young men, and know them to be so much attached to me! They were excessively sorry to go! But so they always are. The dear Colonel rallied his spirits tolerably till just at last; but Lensherr seemed to feel it most acutely, more, I think, than last year. His attachment to Rosings certainly increases.”

Mr. Cassidy had a compliment, and an allusion to throw in here, which were kindly smiled on by the mother and daughter.

Lady Jean observed, after dinner, that Mr. Xavier seemed out of spirits, and immediately accounting for it by herself, by supposing that he did not like to go home again so soon, she added:

“But if that is the case, you must write to your mother and beg that you may stay a little longer. Mrs. Cassidy will be very glad of your company, I am sure.”

“I am much obliged to your ladyship for your kind invitation,” replied Charles, “But it is not in my power to accept it. I must be in town next Saturday.”

“Why, at that rate, you will have been here only six weeks. I expected you to stay two months. I told Mrs. Cassidy so before you came. There can be no occasion for your going so soon. Mrs. Xavier could certainly spare you for another fortnight.”

“But my father cannot. He wrote last week to hurry my return.”

“Oh! Your father of course may spare you, if your mother can. Children are never of so much consequence to a father. And if you will stay another  _month_  complete, it will be in my power to take one of you as far as London, for I am going there early in June, for a week; and as Dawson does not object to the barouche-box, there will be very good room for one of you—and indeed, if the weather should happen to be cool, I should not object to taking you both, as you are neither of you large.”

“You are all kindness, madam; but I believe we must abide by our original plan.”

Lady Jean seemed resigned. “Mrs. Cassidy, you must send a servant with them. You know I always speak my mind, and I cannot bear the idea of two young people travelling post by themselves. It is highly improper. You must contrive to send somebody. I have the greatest dislike in the world to that sort of thing. Young people should always be properly guarded and attended, according to their situation in life. When my niece Moira went to Ramsgate last summer, I made a point of her having two men-servants go with her. Miss Lensherr, the daughter of Mr. Lensherr, of Pemberley, and Lady Rachel, could not have appeared with propriety in a different manner. I am excessively attentive to all those things. You must send John with the young ladies, Mr. Alex. I am glad it occurred to me to mention it; for it would really be discreditable to  _you_  to let them go alone.”

“My uncle is to send a servant for us.”

“Oh! Your uncle! He keeps a man-servant, does he? I am very glad you have somebody who thinks of these things. Where shall you change horses? Oh! Bromley, of course. If you mention my name at the Bell, you will be attended to.”

Lady Jean had many other questions to ask respecting their journey, and as she did not answer them all herself, attention was necessary, which Charles believed to be lucky for him; or, with a mind so occupied, he might have forgotten where he was. Reflection must be reserved for solitary hours; whenever he was alone, he gave way to it as the greatest relief; and not a day went by without a solitary walk, in which he might indulge in all the delight of unpleasant recollections.

Mr. Lensherr's letter he was in a fair way of soon knowing by heart. He studied every sentence; and his feelings towards its writer were at times widely different. When he remembered the style of his address, he was still full of indignation; but when he considered how unjustly he had condemned and upbraided him, his anger was turned against himself; and his disappointed feelings became the object of compassion. His attachment excited gratitude, his general character respect; but he could not approve him; nor could he for a moment repent his refusal, or feel the slightest inclination ever to see him again. In his own past behaviour, there was a constant source of vexation and regret; and in the unhappy defects of his family, a subject of yet heavier chagrin. They were hopeless of remedy. His father, contented with laughing at them, would never exert himself to restrain the wild giddiness of his youngest children; and his mother, with manners so far from right herself, was entirely insensible of the evil. Charles had frequently united with Raven in an endeavour to check the imprudence of Angel and Emma; but while they were supported by their mother's indulgence, what chance could there be of improvement? Angel, weak-spirited, irritable, and completely under Emma's guidance, had been always affronted by their advice; and Emma, self-willed and careless, would scarcely give them a hearing. They were ignorant, idle, and vain. While there was an officer in Meryton, they would flirt with him; and while Meryton was within a walk of Longbourn, they would be going there forever.

Anxiety on Raven's behalf was another prevailing concern; and Mr. Lensherr's explanation, by restoring McCoy to all her former good opinion, heightened the sense of what Raven had lost. His affection was proved to have been sincere, and his conduct cleared of all blame, unless any could attach to the implicitness of his confidence in his friend. How grievous then was the thought that, of a situation so desirable in every respect, so replete with advantage, so promising for happiness, Raven had been deprived, by the folly and indecorum of her own family!

When to these recollections was added the development of Shaw's character, it may be easily believed that the happy spirits which had seldom been depressed before, were now so much affected as to make it almost impossible for him to appear tolerably cheerful.

Their engagements at Rosings were as frequent during the last week of his stay as they had been at first. The very last evening was spent there; and her ladyship again inquired minutely into the particulars of their journey, gave them directions as to the best method of packing, and was so urgent on the necessity of placing clothes in the only right way, that Gabriel thought himself obliged, on his return, to undo all the work of the morning, and pack his trunk afresh.

When they parted, Lady Jean, with great condescension, wished them a good journey, and invited them to come to Hunsford again next year; and Miss de Grey exerted herself so far as to curtsey and hold out her hand to both.

 

* * *

**Chapter 15**

On Saturday morning Charles and Mr. Cassidy met for breakfast a few minutes before the others appeared; and he took the opportunity of paying the parting civilities which he deemed indispensably necessary.

“I know not, Mr. Charles,” said he, “Whether Mr. Cassidy has yet expressed his sense of your kindness in coming to us; but I am very certain you will not leave the house without receiving his thanks for it. The favour of your company has been much felt, I assure you. We know how little there is to tempt anyone to our humble abode. Our plain manner of living, our small rooms and few domestics, and the little we see of the world, must make Hunsford extremely dull to a young gentleman like yourself; but I hope you will believe us grateful for the condescension, and that we have done everything in our power to prevent your spending your time unpleasantly.”

Charles was eager with his thanks and assurances of happiness. He had spent six weeks with great enjoyment; and the pleasure of being with Alex, and the kind attentions he had received, must make  _him_  feel the obliged. Mr. Cassidy was gratified, and with a more smiling solemnity replied:

“It gives me great pleasure to hear that you have passed your time not disagreeably. We have certainly done our best; and most fortunately having it in our power to introduce you to very superior society, and, from our connection with Rosings, the frequent means of varying the humble home scene, I think we may flatter ourselves that your Hunsford visit cannot have been entirely irksome. Our situation with regard to Lady Jean's family is indeed the sort of extraordinary advantage and blessing which few can boast. You see on what a footing we are. You see how continually we are engaged there. In truth I must acknowledge that, with all the disadvantages of this humble parsonage, I should not think anyone abiding in it an object of compassion, while they are sharers of our intimacy at Rosings.”

Words were insufficient for the elevation of his feelings; and he was obliged to walk about the room, while Charles tried to unite civility and truth in a few short sentences.

“You may, in fact, carry a very favourable report of us into Hertfordshire, my dear cousin. I flatter myself at least that you will be able to do so. Lady Jean's great attentions to Mr. Cassidy you have been a daily witness of; and altogether I trust it does not appear that your friend has drawn an unfortunate—but on this point it will be as well to be silent. Only let me assure you, my dear Mr. Charles, that I can from my heart most cordially wish you equal felicity in marriage. My dear Alex and I have but one mind and one way of thinking. There is in everything a most remarkable resemblance of character and ideas between us. We seem to have been designed for each other.”

Charles could safely say that it was a great happiness where that was the case, and with equal sincerity could add, that he firmly believed and rejoiced in his domestic comforts. He was not sorry, however, to have the recital of them interrupted by the gentleman from whom they sprang. Poor Alex! It was melancholy to leave him to such society! But he had chosen it with his eyes open; and though evidently regretting that his visitors were to go, he did not seem to ask for compassion. His home and his housekeeping, his parish and his poultry, and all their dependent concerns, had not yet lost their charms.

At length the chaise arrived, the trunks were fastened on, the parcels placed within, and it was pronounced to be ready. After an affectionate parting between the friends, Charles was attended to the carriage by Mr. Cassidy, and as they walked down the garden he was commissioning him with his best respects to all his family, not forgetting his thanks for the kindness he had received at Longbourn in the winter, and his compliments to Mr. Logan and Mr. Remy, though unknown. He then handed him in, Gabriel followed, and the door was on the point of being closed, when he suddenly reminded them, with some consternation, that they had hitherto forgotten to leave any message for the ladies at Rosings.

“But,” He added, “You will of course wish to have your humble respects delivered to them, with your grateful thanks for their kindness to you while you have been here.”

Charles made no objection; the door was then allowed to be shut, and the carriage drove off.

“Good gracious!” cried Gabriel, after a few minutes' silence, “It seems but a day or two since we first came! And yet how many things have happened!”

“A great many indeed,” said his companion with a sigh.

“We have dined nine times at Rosings, besides drinking tea there twice! How much I shall have to tell!”

Charles added privately, _“And how much I shall have to conceal!”_ Luckily, he was the only person, aside from Lady Jean, that could peer into the minds of others, so he wouldn’t have to worry about someone plucking the information from his mind unwillingly.

Their journey was performed without much conversation, or any alarm; and within four hours of their leaving Hunsford they reached Mr. Logan's house, where they were to remain a few days.

Raven looked well, and Charles had little opportunity of studying her spirits, amidst the various engagements which the kindness of his uncle had reserved for them. But Raven was to go home with him, and at Longbourn there would be leisure enough for observation.

It was not without an effort, meanwhile, that he could wait even for Longbourn, before he told his sister of Mr. Lensherr's proposals. To know that he had the power of revealing what would so exceedingly astonish Raven, and must, at the same time, so highly gratify whatever of her own vanity she had not yet been able to reason away, was such a temptation to openness as nothing could have conquered but the state of indecision in which he remained as to the extent of what he should communicate; and his fear, if he once entered on the subject, of being hurried into repeating something of McCoy which might only grieve his sister further.


	14. Volume II: Chapters 16 - 17

**Chapter 16**

It was the second week in May, in which the three young people set out together from Gracechurch Street for the town of ——, in Hertfordshire; and, as they drew near the appointed inn where Mr. Xavier's carriage was to meet them, they quickly perceived, in token of the coachman's punctuality, both Angel and Emma looking out of a dining-room up stairs. These two girls had been above an hour in the place, happily employed in visiting an opposite milliner, watching the sentinel on guard, and dressing a salad and cucumber.

After welcoming their sisters, they triumphantly displayed a table set out with such cold meat as an inn larder usually affords, exclaiming “Is not this nice? Is not this an agreeable surprise?”

“And we mean to treat you all,” added Emma, “But you must lend us the money, for we have just spent ours at the shop out there.” Then, showing her purchases—“Look here, I have bought this bonnet. I do not think it is very pretty; but I thought I might as well buy it as not. I shall pull it to pieces as soon as I get home, and see if I can make it up any better.”

And when her sisters abused it as ugly, she added, with perfect unconcern, “Oh! But there were two or three much uglier in the shop; and when I have bought some prettier-coloured satin to trim it with fresh, I think it will be very tolerable. Besides, it will not much signify what one wears this summer, after the ——shire have left Meryton, and they are going in a fortnight.”

“Are they indeed!” cried Charles, with the greatest satisfaction.

“They are going to be encamped near Brighton; and I do so want papa to take us all there for the summer! It would be such a delicious scheme; and I dare say would hardly cost anything at all. Mamma would like to go too of all things! Only think what a miserable summer else we shall have!”

_“Yes,”_ thought Charles, _“ **That** would be a delightful scheme indeed, and completely do for us at once. Good Heaven! Brighton, and a whole campful of soldiers, to us, who have been overset already by one poor regiment of militia, and the monthly balls of Meryton!”_

“Now I have got some news for you,” said Emma, as they sat down at table. “What do you think? It is excellent news—capital news—and about a certain person we all like!”

Raven and Charles looked at each other, and the waiter was told he need not stay. Emma laughed, and said:

“Aye, that is just like your formality and discretion. You thought the waiter must not hear, as if he cared! I dare say he often hears worse things said than I am going to say. But he is an ugly fellow! I am glad he is gone. I never saw such a long chin in my life. Well, but now for my news; it is about dear Shaw; too good for the waiter, is it not? There is no danger of Shaw's marrying Mary King. There's for you! She is gone down to her uncle at Liverpool: gone to stay. Shaw is safe.”

“And Mary King is safe!” added Charles; “Safe from a connection imprudent as to fortune.”

“She is a great fool for going away, if she liked him.”

“But I hope there is no strong attachment on either side,” said Raven.

“I am sure there is not on  _his_. I will answer for it, he never cared three straws about her—who could about such a nasty little freckled thing?”

Charles was shocked to think that, however incapable of such coarseness of  _expression_  himself, the coarseness of the  _sentiment_  was little other than his own breast had harboured and fancied liberal!

As soon as all had ate, and the elder ones paid, the carriage was ordered; and after some contrivance, the whole party, with all their boxes, work-bags, and parcels, and the unwelcome addition of Angel's and Emma's purchases, were seated in it.

“How nicely we are all crammed in,” cried Emma. “I am glad I bought my bonnet, if it is only for the fun of having another bandbox! Well, now let us be quite comfortable and snug, and talk and laugh all the way home. And in the first place, let us hear what has happened to you all since you went away. Have you seen any pleasant men? Have you had any flirting? I was in great hopes that one of you would have got a husband before you came back. Raven will be quite an old maid soon, I declare. She is almost three-and-twenty! Lord, how ashamed I should be of not being married before three-and-twenty! My aunt Munroe wants you so to get husbands, you can't think. She says Charlie had better have taken Mr. Cassidy; but  _I_  do not think there would have been any fun in it. Lord! How I should like to be married before any of you; and then I would chaperon you about to all the balls. Dear me! We had such a good piece of fun the other day at Colonel Rasputin's. Angel and me were to spend the day there, and Mrs. Rasputin promised to have a little dance in the evening; (by the bye, Mrs. Rasputin and me are  _such_  friends!) and so she asked the two Harringtons to come, but Harriet was ill, and so Pen was forced to come by herself; and then, what do you think we did? We dressed up Chamberlayne in woman's clothes on purpose to pass for a lady, only think what fun! Not a soul knew of it, but Colonel and Mrs. Rasputin, and Angel and me, except my aunt, for we were forced to borrow one of her gowns; and you cannot imagine how well he looked! When Denny, and Shaw, and Pratt, and two or three more of the men came in, they did not know him in the least. Lord! How I laughed! And so did Mrs. Rasputin. I thought I should have died. And  _that_  made the men suspect something, and then they soon found out what was the matter.”

With such kinds of histories of their parties and good jokes, did Emma, assisted by Angel's hints and additions, endeavour to amuse her companions all the way to Longbourn. Charles listened as little as he could, but there was no escaping the frequent mention of Shaw's name.

Their reception at home was most kind. Mrs. Xavier rejoiced to see Raven in undiminished beauty; and more than once during dinner did Mr. Xavier say voluntarily to Charles:

“I am glad you are come back, Charlie.”

Their party in the dining-room was large, for almost all the Summerses came to meet Gabriel and hear the news; and various were the subjects that occupied them: Lady Summers was inquiring of Gabriel, after the welfare and poultry of her eldest child; Mrs. Xavier was doubly engaged, on one hand collecting an account of the present fashions from Raven, who sat some way below her, and, on the other, retailing them all to the younger Summerses; and Emma, in a voice rather louder than any other person's, was enumerating the various pleasures of the morning to anybody who would hear her.

“Oh! Azazel,” said she, “I wish you had gone with us, for we had such fun! As we went along, Angel and I drew up the blinds, and pretended there was nobody in the coach; and I should have gone so all the way, if Angel had not been sick; and when we got to the George, I do think we behaved very handsomely, for we treated the other three with the nicest cold luncheon in the world, and if you would have gone, we would have treated you too. And then when we came away it was such fun! I thought we never should have got into the coach. I was ready to die of laughter. And then we were so merry all the way home! We talked and laughed so loud, that anybody might have heard us ten miles off!”

To this Azazel very gravely replied, “Far be it from me, my dear sister, to depreciate such pleasures! They would doubtless be congenial with the generality of minds. But I confess they would have no charms for  _me_ —I should infinitely prefer a book.”

But of this answer Emma heard not a word. She seldom listened to anybody for more than half a minute, and never attended to Azazel at all.

In the afternoon Emma was urgent with the rest of the girls to walk to Meryton, and to see how everybody went on; but Charles steadily opposed the scheme. It should not be said that the Miss Xaviers could not be at home half a day before they were in pursuit of the officers. There was another reason too for his opposition. He dreaded seeing Mr. Shaw again, and was resolved to avoid it as long as possible. The comfort to  _his_  of the regiment's approaching removal was indeed beyond expression. In a fortnight they were to go—and once gone, he hoped there could be nothing more to plague him on his account.

He had not been many hours at home before he found that the Brighton scheme, of which Emma had given them a hint at the inn, was under frequent discussion between his parents. Charles saw directly that his father had not the smallest intention of yielding; but his answers were at the same time so vague and equivocal, that his mother, though often disheartened, had never yet despaired of succeeding at last.

 

* * *

 

**Chapter 17**

Charles's impatience to acquaint Raven with what had happened could no longer be overcome; and at length, resolving to suppress every particular in which his sister was concerned, and preparing her to be surprised, he related to her the next morning the chief of the scene between Mr. Lensherr and himself.

Miss Xavier's astonishment was soon lessened by the strong sisterly partiality which made any admiration of Charles appear perfectly natural; and all surprise was shortly lost in other feelings. She was sorry that Mr. Lensherr should have delivered his sentiments in a manner so little suited to recommend them; but still more was she grieved for the unhappiness which her brother's refusal must have given him.

“His being so sure of succeeding was wrong,” said she, “And certainly ought not to have appeared; but consider how much it must increase his disappointment!”

“Indeed,” replied Charles, “I am heartily sorry for him; but he has other feelings, which will probably soon drive away his regard for me. You do not blame me, however, for refusing him?”

“Blame you! Oh, no.”

“But you blame me for having spoken so warmly of Shaw?”

“No—I do not know that you were wrong in saying what you did.”

“But you  _will_  know it, when I tell you what happened the very next day.”

He then spoke of the letter, repeating the whole of its contents as far as they concerned George Shaw. What a stroke was this for poor Raven! Who would willingly have gone through the world without believing that so much wickedness existed in the whole race of mankind, as was here collected in one individual. Nor was Lensherr's vindication, though grateful to her feelings, capable of consoling her for such discovery. Most earnestly did she labour to prove the probability of error, and seek to clear the one without involving the other.

“This will not do,” said Charles; “You never will be able to make both of them good for anything. Take your choice, but you must be satisfied with only one. There is but such a quantity of merit between them; just enough to make one good sort of man; and of late it has been shifting about pretty much. For my part, I am inclined to believe it all Lensherr's; but you shall do as you choose.”

It was some time, however, before a smile could be extorted from Raven.

“I do not know when I have been more shocked,” said she. “Shaw so very bad! It is almost past belief. And poor Mr. Lensherr! Dear Charlie, only consider what he must have suffered. Such a disappointment! And with the knowledge of your ill opinion, too! And having to relate such a thing of his sister! It is really too distressing. I am sure you must feel it so.”

“Oh! No, my regret and compassion are all done away by seeing you so full of both. I know you will do him such ample justice, that I am growing every moment more unconcerned and indifferent. Your profusion makes me saving; and if you lament over him much longer, my heart will be as light as a feather.”

“Poor Shaw! There is such an expression of goodness in his countenance! Such an openness and gentleness in his manner!”

“There certainly was some great mismanagement in the education of those two young men. One has got all the goodness, and the other all the appearance of it.”

“I never thought Mr. Lensherr so deficient in the  _appearance_  of it as you used to do.”

“And yet I meant to be uncommonly clever in taking so decided a dislike to him, without any reason. It is such a spur to one's genius, such an opening for wit, to have a dislike of that kind. One may be continually abusive without saying anything just; but one cannot always be laughing at a man without now and then stumbling on something witty.”

“Charlie, when you first read that letter, I am sure you could not treat the matter as you do now.”

“Indeed, I could not. I was uncomfortable enough, I may say unhappy. And with no one to speak to about what I felt, no Raven to comfort me and say that I had not been so very weak and vain and nonsensical as I knew I had! Oh! How I wanted you!”

“How unfortunate that you should have used such very strong expressions in speaking of Shaw to Mr. Lensherr, for now they  _do_  appear wholly undeserved.”

“Certainly. But the misfortune of speaking with bitterness is a most natural consequence of the prejudices I had been encouraging. There is one point on which I want your advice. I want to be told whether I ought, or ought not, to make our acquaintances in general understand Shaw's character.”

Miss Xavier paused a little, and then replied, “Surely there can be no occasion for exposing him so dreadfully. What is your opinion?”

“That it ought not to be attempted. Mr. Lensherr has not authorised me to make his communication public. On the contrary, every particular relative to his sister was meant to be kept as much as possible to myself; and if I endeavour to undeceive people as to the rest of his conduct, who will believe me? The general prejudice against Mr. Lensherr is so violent, that it would be the death of half the good people in Meryton to attempt to place him in an amiable light. I am not equal to it. Shaw will soon be gone; and therefore it will not signify to anyone here what he really is. Some time hence it will be all found out, and then we may laugh at their stupidity in not knowing it before. At present I will say nothing about it.”

“You are quite right. To have his errors made public might ruin him for ever. He is now, perhaps, sorry for what he has done, and anxious to re-establish a character. We must not make him desperate.”

The tumult of Charles's mind was allayed by this conversation. He had got rid of two of the secrets which had weighed on him for a fortnight, and was certain of a willing listener in Raven, whenever he might wish to talk again of either. But there was still something lurking behind, of which prudence forbade the disclosure. He dared not relate the other half of Mr. Lensherr's letter, nor explain to his sister how sincerely she had been valued by his friend. Here was knowledge in which no one could partake; and he was sensible that nothing less than a perfect understanding between the parties could justify him in throwing off this last encumbrance of mystery. “And then,” said she, “If that very improbable event should ever take place, I shall merely be able to tell what McCoy may tell in a much more agreeable manner himself. The liberty of communication cannot be mine till it has lost all its value!”

He was now, on being settled at home, at leisure to observe the real state of his sister's spirits. Raven was not happy. She still cherished a very tender affection for McCoy. Having never even fancied herself in love before, her regard had all the warmth of first attachment, and, from her age and disposition, greater steadiness than most first attachments often boast; and so fervently did she value his remembrance, and prefer him to every other man, that all her good sense, and all her attention to the feelings of her friends, were requisite to check the indulgence of those regrets which must have been injurious to her own health and their tranquillity.

“Well, Charlie,” said Mrs. Xavier one day, “What is your opinion  _now_  of this sad business of Raven's? For my part, I am determined never to speak of it again to anybody. I told my sister Munroe so the other day. But I cannot find out that Raven saw anything of him in London. Well, he is a very undeserving young man—and I do not suppose there's the least chance in the world of her ever getting him now. There is no talk of his coming to Netherfield again in the summer; and I have inquired of everybody, too, who is likely to know.”

“I do not believe he will ever live at Netherfield any more.”

“Oh well! It is just as he chooses. Nobody wants him to come. Though I shall always say he used my daughter extremely ill; and if I was her, I would not have put up with it. Well, my comfort is, I am sure Raven will die of a broken heart; and then he will be sorry for what he has done.”

But as Charles could not receive comfort from any such expectation, he made no answer.

“Well, Charlie,” continued her mother, soon afterwards, “And so the Cassidyes live very comfortable, do they? Well, well, I only hope it will last. And what sort of table do they keep? Alex is an excellent manager, I dare say. If he is half as sharp as his mother, he is saving enough. There is nothing extravagant in  _their_  housekeeping, I dare say.”

“No, nothing at all.”

“A great deal of good management, depend upon it. Yes, yes,  _they_  will take care not to outrun their income.  _They_  will never be distressed for money. Well, much good may it do them! And so, I suppose, they often talk of having Longbourn when your father is dead. They look upon it as quite their own, I dare say, whenever that happens.”

“It was a subject which they could not mention before me.”

“No; it would have been strange if they had; but I make no doubt they often talk of it between themselves. Well, if they can be easy with an estate that is not lawfully their own, so much the better. I should be ashamed of having one that was only entailed on me.”


	15. Volume II: Chapters 18 - 19

**Chapter 18**

The first week of their return was soon gone. The second began. It was the last of the regiment's stay in Meryton, and all the young people in the neighbourhood were drooping apace. The dejection was almost universal. The elder Xavier children alone were still able to eat, drink, and sleep, and pursue the usual course of their employments. Very frequently were they reproached for this insensibility by Angel and Emma, whose own misery was extreme, and who could not comprehend such hard-heartedness in any of the family.

“Good Heaven! What is to become of us? What are we to do?” would they often exclaim in the bitterness of woe. “How can you be smiling so, Charlie?”

Their affectionate mother shared all their grief; she remembered what she had herself endured on a similar occasion, five-and-twenty years ago.

“I am sure,” said she, “I cried for two days together when Colonel Miller's regiment went away. I thought I should have broken my heart.”

“I am sure I shall break  _mine_ ,” said Emma.

“If one could but go to Brighton!” observed Mrs. Xavier.

“Oh, yes!—if one could but go to Brighton! But papa is so disagreeable.”

“A little sea-bathing would set me up forever.”

“And my aunt Munroe is sure it would do  _me_  a great deal of good,” added Angel.

Such were the kind of lamentations resounding perpetually through Longbourn House. Charles tried to be diverted by them; but all sense of pleasure was lost in shame. He felt anew the justice of Mr. Lensherr's objections; and never had he been so much disposed to pardon his interference in the views of his friend.

But the gloom of Emma's prospect was shortly cleared away; for she received an invitation from Mrs. Rasputin, the wife of the colonel of the regiment, to accompany her to Brighton. This invaluable friend was a very young woman, and very lately married. A resemblance in good humour and good spirits had recommended her and Emma to each other, and out of their  _three_  months' acquaintance they had been intimate  _two_.

The rapture of Emma on this occasion, her adoration of Mrs. Rasputin, the delight of Mrs. Xavier, and the mortification of Angel, are scarcely to be described. Wholly inattentive to her sister's feelings, Emma flew about the house in restless ecstasy, calling for everyone's congratulations, and laughing and talking with more violence than ever; whilst the luckless Angel continued in the parlour repined at her fate in terms as unreasonable as her accent was peevish.

“I cannot see why Mrs. Rasputin should not ask  _me_  as well as Emma,” said she, “Though I am  _not_  her particular friend. I have just as much right to be asked as she has, and more too, for I am two years older.”

In vain did Charles attempt to make her reasonable, and Raven to make her resigned. As for Charles himself, this invitation was so far from exciting in him the same feelings as in his mother and Emma, that he considered it as the death warrant of all possibility of common sense for the latter; and detestable as such a step must make him were it known, he could not help secretly advising his father not to let her go. He represented to him all the improprieties of Emma's general behaviour, the little advantage he could derive from the friendship of such a woman as Mrs. Rasputin, and the probability of her being yet more imprudent with such a companion at Brighton, where the temptations must be greater than at home. He heard him attentively, and then said:

“Emma will never be easy until she has exposed herself in some public place or other, and we can never expect her to do it with so little expense or inconvenience to her family as under the present circumstances.”

“If you were aware,” said Charles, “Of the very great disadvantage to us all which must arise from the public notice of Emma's unguarded and imprudent manner—nay, which has already arisen from it, I am sure you would judge differently in the affair.”

“Already arisen?” repeated Mr. Xavier. “What, has she frightened away some of your lovers? Poor little Charlie! But do not be cast down. Such squeamish youths as cannot bear to be connected with a little absurdity are not worth a regret. Come, let me see the list of pitiful fellows who have been kept aloof by Emma's folly.”

“Indeed you are mistaken. I have no such injuries to resent. It is not of particular, but of general evils, which I am now complaining. Our importance, our respectability in the world must be affected by the wild volatility, the assurance and disdain of all restraint which mark Emma's character. Excuse me, for I must speak plainly. If you, my dear father, will not take the trouble of checking her exuberant spirits, and of teaching her that her present pursuits are not to be the business of her life, she will soon be beyond the reach of amendment. Her character will be fixed, and she will, at sixteen, be the most determined flirt that ever made herself or her family ridiculous; a flirt, too, in the worst and meanest degree of flirtation; without any attraction beyond youth and a tolerable person; and, from the ignorance and emptiness of her mind, wholly unable to ward off any portion of that universal contempt which her rage for admiration will excite. In this danger Angel also is comprehended. She will follow wherever Emma leads. Vain, ignorant, idle, and absolutely uncontrolled! Oh! My dear father, can you suppose it possible that they will not be censured and despised wherever they are known, and that their sisters will not be often involved in the disgrace?”

Mr. Xavier saw that his whole heart was in the subject, and affectionately taking his hand said in reply:

“Do not make yourself uneasy, my love. Wherever you and Raven are known you must be respected and valued; and you will not appear to less advantage for having a couple of—or I may say, three—very silly siblings. We shall have no peace at Longbourn if Emma does not go to Brighton. Let her go, then. Colonel Rasputin is a sensible man, and will keep her out of any real mischief; and she is luckily too poor to be an object of prey to anybody. At Brighton she will be of less importance even as a common flirt than she has been here. The officers will find women better worth their notice. Let us hope, therefore, that her being there may teach her her own insignificance. At any rate, she cannot grow many degrees worse, without authorising us to lock her up for the rest of her life.”

With this answer Charles was forced to be content; but his own opinion continued the same, and he left him disappointed and sorry. It was not in his nature, however, to increase her vexations by dwelling on them. He was confident of having performed his duty, and to fret over unavoidable evils, or augment them by anxiety, was no part of her disposition.

Had Emma and her mother known the substance of her conference with her father, their indignation would hardly have found expression in their united volubility. In Emma's imagination, a visit to Brighton comprised every possibility of earthly happiness. She saw, with the creative eye of fancy, the streets of that gay bathing-place covered with officers. She saw herself the object of attention, to tens and to scores of them at present unknown. She saw all the glories of the camp—its tents stretched forth in beauteous uniformity of lines, crowded with the young and the gay, and dazzling with scarlet; and, to complete the view, she saw herself seated beneath a tent, tenderly flirting with at least six officers at once.

Had she known her sister sought to tear her from such prospects and such realities as these, what would have been her sensations? They could have been understood only by her mother, who might have felt nearly the same. Emma's going to Brighton was all that consoled her for her melancholy conviction of her husband's never intending to go there himself.

But they were entirely ignorant of what had passed; and their raptures continued, with little intermission, to the very day of Emma's leaving home.

Charles was now to see Mr. Shaw for the last time. Having been frequently in company with him since his return, agitation was pretty well over; the agitations of former partiality entirely so. He had even learnt to detect, in the very gentleness which had first delighted him, an affectation and a sameness to disgust and weary. In his present behaviour to himself, moreover, he had a fresh source of displeasure, for the inclination he soon testified of renewing those intentions which had marked the early part of their acquaintance could only serve, after what had since passed, to provoke him. Charles lost all concern for him in finding himself thus selected as the object of such idle and frivolous gallantry; and while he steadily repressed it, could not but feel the reproof contained in his believing, that however long, and for whatever cause, his attentions had been withdrawn, his vanity would be gratified, and his preference secured at any time by their renewal.

On the very last day of the regiment's remaining at Meryton, he dined, with other of the officers, at Longbourn; and so little was Charles disposed to part from him in good humour, that on his making some inquiry as to the manner in which his time had passed at Hunsford, he mentioned Colonel Cable's and Mr. Lensherr's having both spent three weeks at Rosings, and asked him, if he was acquainted with the former.

He looked surprised, displeased, alarmed; but with a moment's recollection and a returning smile, replied, that he had formerly seen him often; and, after observing that he was a very gentlemanlike man, asked her how he had liked him. His answer was warmly in his favour. With an air of indifference he soon afterwards added:

“How long did you say he was at Rosings?”

“Nearly three weeks.”

“And you saw him frequently?”

“Yes, almost every day.”

“His manners are very different from his cousin's.”

“Yes, very different. But I think Mr. Lensherr improves upon acquaintance.”

“Indeed!” cried Mr. Shaw with a look which did not escape him. “And pray, may I ask?—” But checking himself, he added, in a gayer tone, “Is it in address that he improves? Has he deigned to add aught of civility to his ordinary style?—for I dare not hope,” He continued in a lower and more serious tone, “that he is improved in essentials.”

“Oh, no!” said Charles. “In essentials, I believe, he is very much what he ever was.”

While he spoke, Shaw looked as if scarcely knowing whether to rejoice over his words, or to distrust their meaning. There was a something in his countenance which made him listen with an apprehensive and anxious attention, while she added:

“When I said that he improved on acquaintance, I did not mean that his mind or his manners were in a state of improvement, but that, from knowing him better, his disposition was better understood.”

Shaw's alarm now appeared in a heightened complexion and agitated look; for a few minutes he was silent, till, shaking off his embarrassment, he turned to him again, and said in the gentlest of accents:

“You, who so well know my feeling towards Mr. Lensherr, will readily comprehend how sincerely I must rejoice that he is wise enough to assume even the  _appearance_  of what is right. His pride, in that direction, may be of service, if not to himself, to many others, for it must only deter him from such foul misconduct as I have suffered by. I only fear that the sort of cautiousness to which you, I imagine, have been alluding, is merely adopted on his visits to his aunt, of whose good opinion and judgement he stands much in awe. His fear of her has always operated, I know, when they were together; and a good deal is to be imputed to his wish of forwarding the match with Miss de Grey, which I am certain he has very much at heart.”

Charles could not repress a smile at this, but he answered only by a slight inclination of the head. He saw that Shaw wanted to engage him on the old subject of his grievances, and he was in no humour to indulge him. The rest of the evening passed with the _appearance_ , on his side, of usual cheerfulness, but with no further attempt to distinguish Charles; and they parted at last with mutual civility, and possibly a mutual desire of never meeting again.

When the party broke up, Emma returned with Mrs. Rasputin to Meryton, from whence they were to set out early the next morning. The separation between her and her family was rather noisy than pathetic. Angel was the only one who shed tears; but she did weep from vexation and envy. Mrs. Xavier was diffuse in her good wishes for the felicity of her daughter, and impressive in her injunctions that she should not miss the opportunity of enjoying herself as much as possible—advice which there was every reason to believe would be well attended to; and in the clamorous happiness of Emma herself in bidding farewell, the more gentle adieus of her sisters were uttered without being heard.

 

* * *

 

**Chapter 19**

Had Charles's opinion been all drawn from his own family, he could not have formed a very pleasing opinion of conjugal felicity or domestic comfort. His father, captivated by youth and beauty, and that appearance of good humour which youth and beauty generally give, had married a woman whose weak understanding and illiberal mind had very early in their marriage put an end to all real affection for her. Respect, esteem, and confidence had vanished for ever; and all his views of domestic happiness were overthrown. But Mr. Xavier was not of a disposition to seek comfort for the disappointment which his own imprudence had brought on, in any of those pleasures which too often console the unfortunate for their folly or their vice. He was fond of the country and of books; and from these tastes had arisen his principal enjoyments. To his wife he was very little otherwise indebted, than as her ignorance and folly had contributed to his amusement. This is not the sort of happiness which a man would in general wish to owe to his wife; but where other powers of entertainment are wanting, the true philosopher will derive benefit from such as are given.

Charles, however, had never been blind to the impropriety of his father's behaviour as a husband. He had always seen it with pain; but respecting his abilities, and grateful for his affectionate treatment of himself, he endeavoured to forget what he could not overlook, and to banish from his thoughts that continual breach of conjugal obligation and decorum which, in exposing his wife to the contempt of her own children, was so highly reprehensible. But he had never felt so strongly as now the disadvantages which must attend the children of so unsuitable a marriage, nor ever been so fully aware of the evils arising from so ill-judged a direction of talents; talents, which, rightly used, might at least have preserved the respectability of his children, even if incapable of enlarging the mind of his wife.

When Charles had rejoiced over Shaw's departure he found little other cause for satisfaction in the loss of the regiment. Their parties abroad were less varied than before, and at home he had a mother and sister whose constant repinings at the dullness of everything around them threw a real gloom over their domestic circle; and, though Angel might in time regain her natural degree of sense, since the disturbers of her brain were removed, his other sibling, from whose disposition greater evil might be apprehended, was likely to be hardened in all her folly and assurance by a situation of such double danger as a watering-place and a camp. Upon the whole, therefore, he found, what has been sometimes found before, that an event to which he had been looking with impatient desire did not, in taking place, bring all the satisfaction he had promised himself. It was consequently necessary to name some other period for the commencement of actual felicity—to have some other point on which his wishes and hopes might be fixed, and by again enjoying the pleasure of anticipation, console herself for the present, and prepare for another disappointment. His tour to the Lakes was now the object of his happiest thoughts; it was his best consolation for all the uncomfortable hours which the discontentedness of his mother and Angel made inevitable; and could he have included Raven in the scheme, every part of it would have been perfect.

“But it is fortunate,” thought he, “That I have something to wish for. Were the whole arrangement complete, my disappointment would be certain. But here, by carrying with me one ceaseless source of regret in my sister's absence, I may reasonably hope to have all my expectations of pleasure realised. A scheme of which every part promises delight can never be successful; and general disappointment is only warded off by the defence of some little peculiar vexation.”

When Emma went away she promised to write very often and very minutely to her mother and Angel; but her letters were always long expected, and always very short. Those to her mother contained little else than that they were just returned from the library, where such and such officers had attended them, and where she had seen such beautiful ornaments as made her quite wild; that she had a new gown, or a new parasol, which she would have described more fully, but was obliged to leave off in a violent hurry, as Mrs. Rasputin called her, and they were going off to the camp; and from her correspondence with her sister, there was still less to be learnt—for her letters to Angel, though rather longer, were much too full of lines under the words to be made public.

After the first fortnight or three weeks of her absence, health, good humour, and cheerfulness began to reappear at Longbourn. Everything wore a happier aspect. The families who had been in town for the winter came back again, and summer finery and summer engagements arose. Mrs. Xavier was restored to her usual querulous serenity; and, by the middle of June, Angel was so much recovered as to be able to enter Meryton without tears; an event of such happy promise as to make Charles hope that by the following Christmas she might be so tolerably reasonable as not to mention an officer above once a day, unless, by some cruel and malicious arrangement at the War Office, another regiment should be quartered in Meryton.

The time fixed for the beginning of their northern tour was now fast approaching, and a fortnight only was wanting of it, when a letter arrived from Mr. Remy, which at once delayed its commencement and curtailed its extent. Mr. Logan would be prevented by business from setting out till a fortnight later in July, and must be in London again within a month, and as that left too short a period for them to go so far, and see so much as they had proposed, or at least to see it with the leisure and comfort they had built on, they were obliged to give up the Lakes, and substitute a more contracted tour, and, according to the present plan, were to go no farther northwards than Derbyshire. In that county there was enough to be seen to occupy the chief of their three weeks; and to Mr. Remy it had a peculiarly strong attraction. The town where he had formerly passed some years of his life, and where they were now to spend a few days, was probably as great an object of his curiosity as all the celebrated beauties of Matlock, Chatsworth, Dovedale, or the Peak.

Charles was excessively disappointed; he had set his heart on seeing the Lakes, and still thought there might have been time enough. But it was his business to be satisfied—and certainly his temper to be happy; and all was soon right again.

With the mention of Derbyshire there were many ideas connected. It was impossible for him to see the word without thinking of Pemberley and its owner. “But surely,” said he, “I may enter his county with impunity, and rob it of a few petrified spars without his perceiving me.”

The period of expectation was now doubled. Four weeks were to pass away before his uncles’ arrival. But they did pass away, and Mr. and Mr. Remy, with their four children, did at length appear at Longbourn. The children, two girls of six and eight years old, and two younger boys, were to be left under the particular care of their cousin Raven, who was the general favourite, and whose steady sense and sweetness of temper exactly adapted her for attending to them in every way—teaching them, playing with them, and loving them.

The Howletts stayed only one night at Longbourn, and set off the next morning with Charles in pursuit of novelty and amusement. One enjoyment was certain—that of suitableness of companions; a suitableness which comprehended health and temper to bear inconveniences—cheerfulness to enhance every pleasure—and affection and intelligence, which might supply it among themselves if there were disappointments abroad.

It is not the object of this work to give a description of Derbyshire, nor of any of the remarkable places through which their route thither lay; Oxford, Blenheim, Warwick, Kenilworth, Birmingham, etc. are sufficiently known. A small part of Derbyshire is all the present concern. To the little town of Lambton, the scene of Mr. Remy's former residence, and where he had lately learned some acquaintance still remained, they bent their steps, after having seen all the principal wonders of the country; and within five miles of Lambton, Charles found from his uncle that Pemberley was situated. It was not in their direct road, nor more than a mile or two out of it. In talking over their route the evening before, Mr. Remy expressed an inclination to see the place again. Mr. Logan declared his willingness, and Charles was applied to for his approbation.

“ _Mon cher_ , should not you like t’ see a place o’ which you ‘ave ‘eard so much?” said his uncle; “A place, too, wit’ which so many o’ yer acquaintances are connected. Shaw passed all ‘is youth dere, you know.”

Charles was distressed. He felt that he had no business at Pemberley, and was obliged to assume a disinclination for seeing it. He must own that he was tired of seeing great houses; after going over so many, he really had no pleasure in fine carpets or satin curtains.

Mr. Remy abused his stupidity. “If it were merely a fine house richly furnished,” said he, “I should not care about it myself; but the grounds are delightful. Dey ‘ave some of the finest woods in da country.”

Charles said no more—but his mind could not acquiesce. The possibility of meeting Mr. Lensherr, while viewing the place, instantly occurred. It would be dreadful! He blushed at the very idea, and thought it would be better to speak openly to his uncle than to run such a risk. But against this there were objections; and he finally resolved that it could be the last resource, if his private inquiries to the absence of the family were unfavourably answered.

Accordingly, when he retired at night, he asked the chambermaid whether Pemberley were not a very fine place? What was the name of its proprietor? And, with no little alarm, whether the family were down for the summer? A most welcome negative followed the last question—and his alarms now being removed, he was at leisure to feel a great deal of curiosity to see the house himself; and when the subject was revived the next morning, and he was again applied to, could readily answer, and with a proper air of indifference, that he had not really any dislike to the scheme. To Pemberley, therefore, they were to go.

**END VOLUME II**


	16. Volume III: Chapters 1 - 2

**VOLUME III**

**Chapter 1**

Charles, as they drove along, watched for the first appearance of Pemberley Woods with some perturbation; and when at length they turned in at the lodge, his spirits were in a high flutter.

The park was very large, and contained great variety of ground. They entered it in one of its lowest points, and drove for some time through a beautiful wood stretching over a wide extent.

Charles's mind was too full for conversation, but he saw and admired every remarkable spot and point of view. They gradually ascended for half-a-mile, and then found themselves at the top of a considerable eminence, where the wood ceased, and the eye was instantly caught by Pemberley House, situated on the opposite side of a valley, into which the road with some abruptness wound. It was a large, handsome stone building, standing well on rising ground, and backed by a ridge of high woody hills; and in front, a stream of some natural importance was swelled into greater, but without any artificial appearance. Its banks were neither formal nor falsely adorned. Charles was delighted. He had never seen a place for which nature had done more, or where natural beauty had been so little counteracted by an awkward taste. They were all of them warm in their admiration; and at that moment he felt that to be master of Pemberley might be something!

They descended the hill, crossed the bridge, and drove to the door; and, while examining the nearer aspect of the house, all his apprehension of meeting its owner returned. He dreaded lest the chambermaid had been mistaken. On applying to see the place, they were admitted into the hall; and Charles, as they waited for the housekeeper, had leisure to wonder at him being where he was.

The housekeeper came; a respectable-looking elderly woman, much less fine, and more civil, than he had any notion of finding him. They followed her into the dining-parlour. It was a large, well proportioned room, handsomely fitted up. Charles, after slightly surveying it, went to a window to enjoy its prospect. The hill, crowned with wood, which they had descended, receiving increased abruptness from the distance, was a beautiful object. Every disposition of the ground was good; and he looked on the whole scene, the river, the trees scattered on its banks and the winding of the valley, as far as he could trace it, with delight. As they passed into other rooms these objects were taking different positions; but from every window there were beauties to be seen. The rooms were lofty and handsome, and their furniture suitable to the fortune of its proprietor; but Charles saw, with admiration of his taste, that it was neither gaudy nor uselessly fine; with less of splendour, and more real elegance, than the furniture of Rosings.

_“And of this place,”_ thought he, _“I might have been master! With these rooms I might now have been familiarly acquainted! Instead of viewing them as a stranger, I might have rejoiced in them as my own, and welcomed to them as visitors my uncles. But no,”_ —recollecting himself— _“That could never be; my uncles would have been lost to me; I should not have been allowed to invite them.”_

This was a lucky recollection—it saved him from something very like regret.

He longed to inquire of the housekeeper whether her master was really absent, but had not the courage for it. At length however, the question was asked by his uncle; and he turned away with alarm, while Mrs. Reynolds replied that he was, adding, “But we expect him to-morrow, with a large party of friends.” How rejoiced was Charles that their own journey had not by any circumstance been delayed a day!

His uncle now called him to look at a picture. He approached and saw the likeness of Mr. Shaw, suspended, amongst several other miniatures, over the mantelpiece. His uncle asked him, smilingly, how he liked it. The housekeeper came forward, and told them it was a picture of a young gentleman, the son of her late master's steward, who had been brought up by him at his own expense. “He is now gone into the army,” She added; “But I am afraid he has turned out very wild.”

Mr. Remy looked at his nephew with a smile, but Charles could not return it.

“And that,” said Mrs. Reynolds, pointing to another of the miniatures, “Is my master—and very like him. It was drawn at the same time as the other—about eight years ago.”

“I have heard much of your master's fine person,” said Mr. Remy, looking at the picture; “It is a handsome face. But, Charlie, you can tell us whether it is like or not.”

Mrs. Reynolds respect for Charles seemed to increase on this intimation of him knowing her master.

“Does that young gentleman know Mr. Lensherr?”

Charles coloured, and said: “A little.”

“And do not you think him a very handsome gentleman, sir?”

“Yes, very handsome.”

“I am sure I know none so handsome; but in the gallery up stairs you will see a finer, larger picture of him than this. This room was my late master's favourite room, and these miniatures are just as they used to be then. He was very fond of them.”

This accounted to Charles for Mr. Shaw's being among them.

Mrs. Reynolds then directed their attention to one of Miss Lensherr, drawn when she was only eight years old.

“And is Miss Lensherr as handsome as her brother?” said Mr. Remy.

“Oh! Yes—the handsomest young lady that ever was seen; and so accomplished!—She plays and sings all day long. In the next room is a new instrument just come down for her—a present from my master; she comes here to-morrow with him.”

Mr. Logan, whose manners were very easy and pleasant, encouraged her communicativeness by his questions and remarks; Mrs. Reynolds, either by pride or attachment, had evidently great pleasure in talking of her master and his sister.

“Is your master much at Pemberley in the course of the year?”

“Not so much as I could wish, sir; but I dare say he may spend half his time here; and Miss Lensherr is always down for the summer months.”

_“Except,”_ thought Charles, _“When she goes to Ramsgate.”_

“If your master would marry, you might see more of him.”

“Yes, sir; but I do not know when  _that_  will be. I do not know who is good enough for him.”

Mr. and Mr. Remy smiled. Charles could not help saying, “It is very much to his credit, I am sure, that you should think so.”

“I say no more than the truth, and everybody will say that knows him,” replied the other. Charles thought this was going pretty far; and he listened with increasing astonishment as the housekeeper added, “I have never known a cross word from him in my life, and I have known him ever since he was four years old.”

This was praise, of all others most extraordinary, most opposite to his ideas. That he was not a good-tempered man had been his firmest opinion. His keenest attention was awakened; he longed to hear more, and was grateful to his uncle for saying:

“There are very few people of whom so much can be said. You are lucky in having such a master.”

“Yes, sir, I know I am. If I were to go through the world, I could not meet with a better. But I have always observed, that they who are good-natured when children, are good-natured when they grow up; and he was always the sweetest-tempered, most generous-hearted boy in the world.”

Charles almost stared at her. _“Can this be Mr. Lensherr?”_ thought he.

“His father was an excellent man,” said Mr. Remy.

“Yes, ma'am, that he was indeed; and his son will be just like him—just as affable to the poor.”

Charles listened, wondered, doubted, and was impatient for more. Mrs. Reynolds could interest him on no other point. She related the subjects of the pictures, the dimensions of the rooms, and the price of the furniture, in vain. Mr. Logan, highly amused by the kind of family prejudice to which he attributed his excessive commendation of her master, soon led again to the subject; and she dwelt with energy on his many merits as they proceeded together up the great staircase.

“He is the best landlord, and the best master,” said she, “That ever lived; not like the wild young men nowadays, who think of nothing but themselves. There is not one of his tenants or servants but will give him a good name. Some people call him proud; but I am sure I never saw anything of it. To my fancy, it is only because he does not rattle away like other young men.”

_“In what an amiable light does this place him!”_ thought Charles.

“This fine account of him,” whispered his uncle as they walked, “Is not quite consistent with his behaviour to our poor friend.”

“Perhaps we might be deceived.”

“That is not very likely; our authority was too good.”

On reaching the spacious lobby above they were shown into a very pretty sitting-room, lately fitted up with greater elegance and lightness than the apartments below; and were informed that it was but just done to give pleasure to Miss Lensherr, who had taken a liking to the room when last at Pemberley.

“He is certainly a good brother,” said Charles, as he walked towards one of the windows.

Mrs. Reynolds anticipated Miss Lensherr's delight, when she should enter the room. “And this is always the way with him,” she added. “Whatever can give his sister any pleasure is sure to be done in a moment. There is nothing he would not do for her.”

The picture-gallery, and two or three of the principal bedrooms, were all that remained to be shown. In the former were many good paintings; but Charles knew nothing of the art; and from such as had been already visible below, she had willingly turned to look at some drawings of Miss Lensherr's, in crayons, whose subjects were usually more interesting, and also more intelligible.

In the gallery there were many family portraits, but they could have little to fix the attention of a stranger. Charles walked in quest of the only face whose features would be known to him. At last it arrested him—and he beheld a striking resemblance to Mr. Lensherr, with such a smile over the face as he remembered to have sometimes seen when he looked at him. He stood several minutes before the picture, in earnest contemplation, and returned to it again before they quitted the gallery. Mrs. Reynolds informed them that it had been taken in his father's lifetime.

There was certainly at this moment, in Charles's mind, a more gentle sensation towards the original than he had ever felt at the height of their acquaintance. The commendation bestowed on him by Mrs. Reynolds was of no trifling nature. What praise is more valuable than the praise of an intelligent servant? As a brother, a landlord, a master, he considered how many people's happiness were in his guardianship!—how much of pleasure or pain was it in his power to bestow!—how much of good or evil must be done by him! Every idea that had been brought forward by the housekeeper was favourable to his character, and as he stood before the canvas on which he was represented, and fixed his eyes upon himself, he thought of his regard with a deeper sentiment of gratitude than it had ever raised before; he remembered its warmth, and softened its impropriety of expression.

When all of the house that was open to general inspection had been seen, they returned downstairs, and, taking leave of the housekeeper, were consigned over to the gardener, who met them at the hall-door.

As they walked across the hall towards the river, Charles turned back to look again; his uncles stopped also, and while the former was conjecturing as to the date of the building, the owner of it himself suddenly came forward from the road, which led behind it to the stables.

They were within twenty yards of each other, and so abrupt was his appearance, that it was impossible to avoid his sight. Their eyes instantly met, and the cheeks of both were overspread with the deepest blush. He absolutely started, and for a moment seemed immovable from surprise; but shortly recovering himself, advanced towards the party, and spoke to Charles, if not in terms of perfect composure, at least of perfect civility.

He had instinctively turned away; but stopping on his approach, received his compliments with an embarrassment impossible to be overcome. Had his first appearance, or his resemblance to the picture they had just been examining, been insufficient to assure the other two that they now saw Mr. Lensherr, the gardener's expression of surprise, on beholding his master, must immediately have told it. They stood a little aloof while he was talking to their nephew, who, astonished and confused, scarcely dared lift his eyes to his face, and knew not what answer he returned to his civil inquiries after his family. Amazed at the alteration of his manner since they last parted, every sentence that he uttered was increasing his embarrassment; and every idea of the impropriety of him being found there recurring to his mind, the few minutes in which they continued were some of the most uncomfortable in his life. Nor did he seem much more at ease; when he spoke, his accent had none of its usual sedateness; and he repeated his inquiries as to the time of him having left Longbourn, and of him having stayed in Derbyshire, so often, and in so hurried a way, as plainly spoke the distraction of his thoughts.

At length every idea seemed to fail him; and, after standing a few moments without saying a word, he suddenly recollected himself, and took leave.

The others then joined Charles, and expressed admiration of his figure; but Charles heard not a word, and wholly engrossed by his own feelings, followed them in silence. He was overpowered by shame and vexation. His coming there was the most unfortunate, the most ill-judged thing in the world! How strange it must appear to him! In what a disgraceful light might it not strike so vain a man! It might seem as if he had purposely thrown himself in his way again! Oh! Why did he come? Or, why did he thus come a day before he was expected? Had they been only ten minutes sooner, they should have been beyond the reach of his discrimination; for it was plain that he was that moment arrived—that moment alighted from his horse or his carriage. He blushed again and again over the perverseness of the meeting. And his behaviour, so strikingly altered—what could it mean? That he should even speak to him was amazing!—but to speak with such civility, to inquire after his family! Never in his life had he seen his manners so little dignified, never had he spoken with such gentleness as on this unexpected meeting. What a contrast did it offer to his last address in Rosings Park, when he put his letter into his hand! He knew not what to think, or how to account for it.

They had now entered a beautiful walk by the side of the water, and every step was bringing forward a nobler fall of ground, or a finer reach of the woods to which they were approaching; but it was some time before Charles was sensible of any of it; and, though he answered mechanically to the repeated appeals of his uncles, and seemed to direct his eyes to such objects as they pointed out, he distinguished no part of the scene. His thoughts were all fixed on that one spot of Pemberley House, whichever it might be, where Mr. Lensherr then was. He longed to know what at the moment was passing in his mind—in what manner he thought of him, and whether, in defiance of everything, he was still dear to him. Perhaps he had been civil only because he felt himself at ease; yet there had been  _that_  in his voice which was not like ease. Whether he had felt more of pain or of pleasure in seeing her he could not tell, but he certainly had not seen him with composure. Once again, Charles longed for the freedom to open up his abilities and peer through the thoughts of another, if only to satisfy his eternal embarrassment.

At length, however, the remarks of his companions on his absence of mind aroused him, and he felt the necessity of appearing more like himself.

They entered the woods, and bidding adieu to the river for a while, ascended some of the higher grounds; when, in spots where the opening of the trees gave the eye power to wander, were many charming views of the valley, the opposite hills, with the long range of woods overspreading many, and occasionally part of the stream. Mr. Logan expressed a wish of going round the whole park, but feared it might be beyond a walk. With a triumphant smile they were told that it was ten miles round. It settled the matter; and they pursued the accustomed circuit; which brought them again, after some time, in a descent among hanging woods, to the edge of the water, and one of its narrowest parts. They crossed it by a simple bridge, in character with the general air of the scene; it was a spot less adorned than any they had yet visited; and the valley, here contracted into a glen, allowed room only for the stream, and a narrow walk amidst the rough coppice-wood which bordered it. Charles longed to explore its windings; but when they had crossed the bridge, and perceived their distance from the house, Mr. Remy, who was not a great walker, could go no farther, and thought only of returning to the carriage as quickly as possible. His nephew was, therefore, obliged to submit, and they took their way towards the house on the opposite side of the river, in the nearest direction; but their progress was slow, for Mr. Logan, though seldom able to indulge the taste, was very fond of fishing, and was so much engaged in watching the occasional appearance of some trout in the water, and talking to the man about them, that he advanced but little. Whilst wandering on in this slow manner, they were again surprised, and Charles's astonishment was quite equal to what it had been at first, by the sight of Mr. Lensherr approaching them, and at no great distance. The walk here being here less sheltered than on the other side, allowed them to see him before they met. Charles, however astonished, was at least more prepared for an interview than before, and resolved to appear and to speak with calmness, if he really intended to meet them. For a few moments, indeed, he felt that he would probably strike into some other path. The idea lasted while a turning in the walk concealed him from their view; the turning past, he was immediately before them. With a glance, he saw that he had lost none of his recent civility; and, to imitate his politeness, he began, as they met, to admire the beauty of the place; but he had not got beyond the words “delightful”, and “charming”, when some unlucky recollections obtruded, and he fancied that praise of Pemberley from him might be mischievously construed. His colour changed, and he said no more.

Mr. Remy was standing a little behind; and on his pausing, Lensherr asked Charles if he would do him the honour of introducing him to his friends. This was a stroke of civility for which he was quite unprepared; and he could hardly suppress a smile at his being now seeking the acquaintance of some of those very people against whom his pride had revolted in his offer to himself. _“What will be his surprise,”_ thought he, _“When he knows who they are? He takes them now for people of fashion.”_

The introduction, however, was immediately made; and as he named their relationship to himself, he stole a sly look at him, to see how he bore it, and was not without the expectation of his decamping as fast as he could from such disgraceful companions. That he was  _surprised_  by the connection was evident; he sustained it, however, with fortitude, and so far from going away, turned back with them, and entered into conversation with Mr. Logan. Charles could not but be pleased, could not but triumph. It was consoling that he should know he had some relations for whom there was no need to blush. He listened most attentively to all that passed between them, and gloried in every expression, every sentence of her uncle, which marked his intelligence, his taste, or his good manners.

The conversation soon turned upon fishing; and he heard Mr. Lensherr invite him, with the greatest civility, to fish there as often as he chose while he continued in the neighbourhood, offering at the same time to supply him with fishing tackle, and pointing out those parts of the stream where there was usually most sport. Mr. Remy, who was walking arm-in-arm with Charles, gave him a look expressive of wonder. Charles said nothing, but it gratified him exceedingly; the compliment must be all for himself. His astonishment, however, was extreme, and continually was he repeating, _“Why is he so altered? From what can it proceed? It cannot be for me—it cannot be for my sake that his manners are thus softened. My reproofs at Hunsford could not work such a change as this. It is impossible that he should still love me.”_

After walking some time in this way, the two in front, the two behind, on resuming their places, after descending to the brink of the river for the better inspection of some curious water-plant, there chanced to be a little alteration. It originated in Mr. Remy, who, fatigued by the exercise of the morning, found Charles's arm inadequate to his support, and consequently preferred his husband's. Mr. Lensherr took his place by his nephew, and they walked on together. After a short silence, Charles first spoke. He wished him to know that he had been assured of his absence before he came to the place, and accordingly began by observing, that his arrival had been very unexpected—“For your housekeeper,” He added, “Informed us that you would certainly not be here till to-morrow; and indeed, before we left Bakewell, we understood that you were not immediately expected in the country.” He acknowledged the truth of it all, and said that business with his steward had occasioned his coming forward a few hours before the rest of the party with whom he had been travelling. “They will join me early to-morrow,” He continued, “And among them are some who will claim an acquaintance with you—Mr. McCoy and his brothers.”

Charles answered only by a slight bow. His thoughts were instantly driven back to the time when Mr. McCoy's name had been the last mentioned between them; and, if he might judge by his complexion,  _his_  mind was not very differently engaged.

“There is also one other person in the party,” He continued after a pause, “Who more particularly wishes to be known to you. Will you allow me, or do I ask too much, to introduce my sister to your acquaintance during your stay at Lambton?”

The surprise of such an application was great indeed; it was too great for him to know in what manner he acceded to it. He immediately felt that whatever desire Miss Lensherr might have of being acquainted with him must be the work of his brother, and, without looking farther, it was satisfactory; it was gratifying to know that his resentment had not made him think really ill of him.

They now walked on in silence, each of them deep in thought. Charles was not comfortable; that was impossible; but he was flattered and pleased. His wish of introducing his sister to him was a compliment of the highest kind. They soon outstripped the others, and when they had reached the carriage, Mr. and Mr. Remy were half a quarter of a mile behind.

Lensherr then asked him to walk into the house—but Charles declared himself not tired, and they stood together on the lawn. At such a time much might have been said, and silence was very awkward. Charles wanted to talk, but there seemed to be an embargo on every subject. At last he recollected that he had been travelling, and they talked of Matlock and Dove Dale with great perseverance. Yet time and his uncle moved slowly—and his patience and his ideas were nearly worn out before the tete-a-tete was over. On Mr. and Mr. Remy's coming up they were all pressed to go into the house and take some refreshment; but this was declined, and they parted on each side with utmost politeness. Mr. Lensherr handed them into the carriage; and when it drove off, Charles saw him walking slowly towards the house.

The observations of his uncles now began; and each of them pronounced him to be infinitely superior to anything they had expected. “He is perfectly well behaved, polite, and unassuming,” said his uncle.

“Dere  _is_  sometin’ a little stately in ‘im, to be sure,” replied his other uncle, “But it is confined t’ ‘is air, and is not unbecomin’. I can now say with da housekeepa, dat dough some people may call ‘im proud, I ‘ave seen nothin’ of it.”

“I was never more surprised than by his behaviour to us. It was more than civil; it was really attentive; and there was no necessity for such attention. His acquaintance with Charles was very trifling.”

“To be sure, Charlie," said his uncle, “‘e is not so ‘andsome as Shaw; or, rather, ‘e ‘as not Shaw's countenance, for his features are perfectly good. But ‘ow came you t’ tell me dat ‘e was so disagreeable?”

Charles excused himself as well as he could; said that he had liked him better when they had met in Kent than before, and that he had never seen him so pleasant as this morning.

“But perhaps he may be a little whimsical in his civilities,” replied his uncle. “Your great men often are; and therefore I shall not take him at his word, as he might change his mind another day, and warn me off his grounds.”

Charles felt that they had entirely misunderstood his character, but said nothing.

“From what we ‘ave seen of ‘im,” continued Mr. Remy, “I really should not have dought dat ‘e could ‘ave behaved in so cruel a way by anybody as ‘e has done by poor Shaw. ‘e ‘as not an ill-natured look. On the contrary, dere is sometin’ pleasin’ about ‘is mouth when ‘e speaks. And dere is sometin’ of dignity in ‘is countenance dat would not give one an unfavourable idea of ‘is ‘eart. But, to be sure, da good lady who showed us ‘is house did give ‘im a most flamin’ character! I could ‘ardly ‘elp laughin’ aloud sometimes. But ‘e is a liberal master, I suppose, and  _dat_  in da eye of a servant comprehends every virtue."

Charles here felt himself called on to say something in vindication of his behaviour to Shaw; and therefore gave them to understand, in as guarded a manner as he could, that by what he had heard from his relations in Kent, his actions were capable of a very different construction; and that his character was by no means so faulty, nor Shaw's so amiable, as they had been considered in Hertfordshire. In confirmation of this, he related the particulars of all the pecuniary transactions in which they had been connected, without actually naming his authority, but stating it to be such as might be relied on.

Mr. Remy was surprised and concerned; but as they were now approaching the scene of his former pleasures, every idea gave way to the charm of recollection; and he was too much engaged in pointing out to his husband all the interesting spots in its environs to think of anything else. Fatigued as he had been by the morning's walk they had no sooner dined than he set off again in quest of his former acquaintance, and the evening was spent in the satisfactions of a intercourse renewed after many years' discontinuance.

The occurrences of the day were too full of interest to leave Charles much attention for any of these new friends; and he could do nothing but think, and think with wonder, of Mr. Lensherr's civility, and, above all, of his wishing him to be acquainted with his sister.

 

* * *

 

**Chapter 2**

Charles had settled it that Mr. Lensherr would bring his sister to visit him the very day after him reaching Pemberley; and was consequently resolved not to be out of sight of the inn the whole of that morning. But his conclusion was false; for on the very morning after their arrival at Lambton, these visitors came. They had been walking about the place with some of their new friends, and were just returning to the inn to dress themselves for dining with the same family, when the sound of a carriage drew them to a window, and they saw a gentleman and a lady in a curricle driving up the street. Charles immediately recognizing the livery, guessed what it meant, and imparted no small degree of his surprise to his relations by acquainting them with the honour which he expected. His uncles were all amazement; and the embarrassment of his manner as he spoke, joined to the circumstance itself, and many of the circumstances of the preceding day, opened to them a new idea on the business. Nothing had ever suggested it before, but they felt that there was no other way of accounting for such attentions from such a quarter than by supposing a partiality for their nephew. While these newly-born notions were passing in their heads, the perturbation of Charles's feelings was at every moment increasing. He was quite amazed at her own discomposure; but amongst other causes of disquiet, he dreaded lest the partiality of the brother should have said too much in his favour; and, more than commonly anxious to please, he naturally suspected that every power of pleasing would fail him.

He retreated from the window, fearful of being seen; and as he walked up and down the room, endeavouring to compose himself, saw such looks of inquiring surprise in his uncles as made everything worse.

Miss Lensherr and her brother appeared, and this formidable introduction took place. With astonishment did Charles see that his new acquaintance was at least as much embarrassed as himself. Since him being at Lambton, he had heard that Miss Lensherr was exceedingly proud; but the observation of a very few minutes convinced him that she was only exceedingly shy. He found it difficult to obtain even a word from her beyond a monosyllable.

Miss Lensherr was tall, and on a larger scale than Charles; and, though little more than sixteen, her figure was formed, and her appearance womanly and graceful. She was less handsome than her brother; but there was sense and good humour in her face, and her manners were perfectly unassuming and gentle. Charles, who had expected to find in her as acute and unembarrassed an observer as ever Mr. Lensherr had been, was much relieved by discerning such different feelings.

They had not long been together before Mr. Lensherr told him that McCoy was also coming to wait on him; and he had barely time to express his satisfaction, and prepare for such a visitor, when McCoy's quick step was heard on the stairs, and in a moment he entered the room. All Charles's anger against him had been long done away; but had he still felt any, it could hardly have stood its ground against the unaffected cordiality with which he expressed himself on seeing him again. He inquired in a friendly, though general way, after his family, and looked and spoke with the same good-humoured ease that he had ever done.

To Mr. Logan and Mr. Remy he was scarcely a less interesting personage than to himself. They had long wished to see him. The whole party before them, indeed, excited a lively attention. The suspicions which had just arisen of Mr. Lensherr and their nephew directed their observation towards each with an earnest though guarded inquiry; and they soon drew from those inquiries the full conviction that one of them at least knew what it was to love. Of Charles’ sensations they remained a little in doubt; but that the gentleman was overflowing with admiration was evident enough.

Charles, on his side, had much to do. He wanted to ascertain the feelings of each of his visitors; he wanted to compose his own, and to make himself agreeable to all; and in the latter object, where he feared most to fail, he was most sure of success, for those to whom he endeavoured to give pleasure were prepossessed in his favour. McCoy was ready, Moira was eager, and Lensherr determined, to be pleased.

In seeing McCoy, his thoughts naturally flew to his sister; and, oh! How ardently did he long to know whether any of his were directed in a like manner. Not for the first time, Charles longed to unleash his power to find the true thoughts of his companions. Sometimes he could fancy that he talked less than on former occasions, and once or twice pleased himself with the notion that, as he looked at her, he was trying to trace a resemblance. But, though this might be imaginary, he could not be deceived as to his behaviour to Miss Lensherr, who had been set up as a rival to Raven. No look appeared on either side that spoke particular regard. Nothing occurred between them that could justify the hopes of his brother. On this point he was soon satisfied; and two or three little circumstances occurred ere they parted, which, in his anxious interpretation, denoted a recollection of Raven not untinctured by tenderness, and a wish of saying more that might lead to the mention of her, had he dared. McCoy observed to Charles, at a moment when the others were talking together, and in a tone which had something of real regret, that it “Was a very long time since he had had the pleasure of seeing her;” and, before Charles could reply, he added, “It is above eight months. We have not met since the 26th of November, when we were all dancing together at Netherfield.”

Charles was pleased to find his memory so exact; and he afterwards took occasion to ask him, when unattended to by any of the rest, whether  _all_  her sisters were at Longbourn. There was not much in the question, nor in the preceding remark; but there was a look and a manner which gave them meaning.

It was not often that he could turn his eyes on Mr. Lensherr himself; but, whenever he did catch a glimpse, he saw an expression of general complaisance, and in all that he said he heard an accent so removed from  _hauteur_  or disdain of his companions, as convinced him that the improvement of manners which he had yesterday witnessed however temporary its existence might prove, had at least outlived one day. When Charles saw Lensherr thus seeking the acquaintance and courting the good opinion of people with whom any intercourse a few months ago would have been a disgrace—when he saw him thus civil, not only to himself, but to the very relations whom he had openly disdained, and recollected their last lively scene in Hunsford Parsonage—the difference, the change was so great, and struck so forcibly on his mind, that he could hardly restrain her astonishment from being visible. Never, even in the company of his dear friends at Netherfield, or his dignified relations at Rosings, had Charles seen him so desirous to please, so free from self-consequence or unbending reserve, as now, when no importance could result from the success of his endeavours, and when even the acquaintance of those to whom his attentions were addressed would draw down the ridicule and censure of the ladies both of Netherfield and Rosings.

Their visitors stayed with them above half-an-hour; and when they arose to depart, Mr. Lensherr called on his sister to join him in expressing their wish of seeing Mr. Logan and Mr. Remy, and Mr. Xavier, to dinner at Pemberley, before they left the country. Miss Lensherr, though with a diffidence which marked her little in the habit of giving invitations, readily obeyed. Mr. Remy looked at his nephew, desirous of knowing how  _he_ , whom the invitation most concerned, felt disposed as to its acceptance, but Charles had turned away his head. Presuming however, that this studied avoidance spoke rather a momentary embarrassment than any dislike of the proposal, and seeing in his husband, who was fond of society, a perfect willingness to accept it, he ventured to engage for his attendance, and the day after the next was fixed on.

McCoy expressed great pleasure in the certainty of seeing Charles again, having still a great deal to say to him, and many inquiries to make after all their Hertfordshire friends. Charles, construing all this into a wish of hearing him speak of his sister, was pleased, and on this account, as well as some others, found himself, when their visitors left them, capable of considering the last half-hour with some satisfaction, though while it was passing, the enjoyment of it had been little. Eager to be alone, and fearful of inquiries or hints from his uncles, he stayed with them only long enough to hear their favourable opinion of McCoy, and then hurried away to dress.

But he had no reason to fear Mr. Logan and Mr. Remy's curiosity; it was not their wish to force his communication. It was evident that he was much better acquainted with Mr. Lensherr than they had before any idea of; it was evident that Lensherr was very much in love with Charles. They saw much to interest, but nothing to justify inquiry.

Of Mr. Lensherr it was now a matter of anxiety to think well; and, as far as their acquaintance reached, there was no fault to find. They could not be untouched by his politeness; and had they drawn his character from their own feelings and his servant's report, without any reference to any other account, the circle in Hertfordshire to which he was known would not have recognized it for Mr. Lensherr. There was now an interest, however, in believing the housekeeper; and they soon became sensible that the authority of a servant who had known him since he was four years old, and whose own manners indicated respectability, was not to be hastily rejected. Neither had anything occurred in the intelligence of their Lambton friends that could materially lessen its weight. They had nothing to accuse him of but pride; pride he probably had, and if not, it would certainly be imputed by the inhabitants of a small market-town where the family did not visit. It was acknowledged, however, that he was a liberal man, and did much good among the poor.

With respect to Shaw, the travellers soon found that he was not held there in much estimation; for though the chief of his concerns with the son of his patron were imperfectly understood, it was yet a well-known fact that, on his quitting Derbyshire, he had left many debts behind him, which Mr. Lensherr afterwards discharged.

As for Charles, his thoughts were at Pemberley this evening more than the last; and the evening, though as it passed it seemed long, was not long enough to determine his feelings towards  _one_  in that mansion; and he lay awake two whole hours endeavouring to make them out. He certainly did not hate him. No; hatred had vanished long ago, and he had almost as long been ashamed of ever feeling a dislike against him, that could be so called. The respect created by the conviction of his valuable qualities, though at first unwillingly admitted, had for some time ceased to be repugnant to his feeling; and it was now heightened into somewhat of a friendlier nature, by the testimony so highly in his favour, and bringing forward his disposition in so amiable a light, which yesterday had produced. But above all, above respect and esteem, there was a motive within his of goodwill which could not be overlooked. It was gratitude; gratitude, not merely for having once loved him, but for loving him still well enough to forgive all the petulance and acrimony of his manner in rejecting him, and all the unjust accusations accompanying his rejection. He who, Charles had been persuaded, would avoid him as his greatest enemy, seemed, on this accidental meeting, most eager to preserve the acquaintance, and without any indelicate display of regard, or any peculiarity of manner, where their two selves only were concerned, was soliciting the good opinion of his friends, and bent on making Charles known to his sister. Such a change in a man of so much pride exciting not only astonishment but gratitude—for to love, ardent love, it must be attributed; and as such its impression on him was of a sort to be encouraged, as by no means unpleasing, though it could not be exactly defined. He respected, he esteemed, he was grateful to Lensherr, he felt a real interest in his welfare; and Charles only wanted to know how far he wished that welfare to depend upon himself, and how far it would be for the happiness of both that he should employ the power, which his fancy told him he still possessed, of bringing on him the renewal of his addresses.

It had been settled in the evening between the uncle and the nephew, that such a striking civility as Miss Lensherr's in coming to see them on the very day of her arrival at Pemberley, for she had reached it only to a late breakfast, ought to be imitated, though it could not be equalled, by some exertion of politeness on their side; and, consequently, that it would be highly expedient to wait on her at Pemberley the following morning. They were, therefore, to go. Charles was pleased; though when he asked himself the reason, he had very little to say in reply.

Mr. Logan left them soon after breakfast. The fishing scheme had been renewed the day before, and a positive engagement made of his meeting some of the gentlemen at Pemberley before noon.


	17. Volume III: Chapters 3 - 5

**Chapter 3**

Convinced as Charles now was that Mr. Janos’ dislike of him had originated in jealousy, he could not help feeling how unwelcome his appearance at Pemberley must be to him, and was curious to know with how much civility on that gentleman's side the acquaintance would now be renewed.

On reaching the house, they were shown through the hall into the saloon, whose northern aspect rendered it delightful for summer. Its windows opening to the ground, admitted a most refreshing view of the high woody hills behind the house, and of the beautiful oaks and Spanish chestnuts which were scattered over the intermediate lawn.

In this house they were received by Miss Lensherr, who was sitting there with Mr. Muñoz and Mr. Janos, and the lady with whom she lived in London. Moira's reception of them was very civil, but attended with all the embarrassment which, though proceeding from shyness and the fear of doing wrong, would easily give to those who felt themselves inferior the belief of her being proud and reserved. Mr. Remy and his nephew, however, did her justice, and pitied her.

By Mr. Muñoz and Mr. Janos they were noticed only by a curtsey; and, on their being seated, a pause, awkward as such pauses must always be, succeeded for a few moments. It was first broken by Mrs. Annesley, a genteel, agreeable-looking woman, whose endeavour to introduce some kind of discourse proved her to be more truly well-bred than either of the others; and between her and Mr. Remy, with occasional help from Charles, the conversation was carried on. Miss Lensherr looked as if she wished for courage enough to join in it; and sometimes did venture a short sentence when there was least danger of its being heard.

Charles soon saw that he was himself closely watched by Mr. Janos, and that he could not speak a word, especially to Miss Lensherr, without calling his attention. This observation would not have prevented him from trying to talk to the latter, had they not been seated at an inconvenient distance; but he was not sorry to be spared the necessity of saying much. His own thoughts were employing him. He expected every moment that some of the gentlemen would enter the room. He wished, he feared that the master of the house might be amongst them; and whether he wished or feared it most, he could scarcely determine. After sitting in this manner a quarter of an hour without hearing Mr. Janos’ voice, Charles was roused by receiving from him a cold inquiry after the health of his family. He answered with equal indifference and brevity, and the other said no more.

The next variation which their visit afforded was produced by the entrance of servants with cold meat, cake, and a variety of all the finest fruits in season; but this did not take place till after many a significant look and smile from Mrs. Annesley to Miss Lensherr had been given, to remind her of her post. There was now employment for the whole party—for though they could not all talk, they could all eat; and the beautiful pyramids of grapes, nectarines, and peaches soon collected them round the table.

While thus engaged, Charles had a fair opportunity of deciding whether he most feared or wished for the appearance of Mr. Lensherr, by the feelings which prevailed on his entering the room; and then, though but a moment before he had believed her wishes to predominate, he began to regret that he came.

Mr. Lensherr had been some time with Mr. Logan, who, with two or three other gentlemen from the house, was engaged by the river, and had left him only on learning that the rest of the family intended a visit to Moira that morning. No sooner did he appear than Charles wisely resolved to be perfectly easy and unembarrassed; a resolution the more necessary to be made, but perhaps not the more easily kept, because he saw that the suspicions of the whole party were awakened against them, and that there was scarcely an eye which did not watch his behaviour when he first came into the room. In no countenance was attentive curiosity so strongly marked as in Mr. Janos’, in spite of the smiles which overspread his face whenever he spoke to one of its objects; for jealousy had not yet made him desperate, and his attentions to Mr. Lensherr were by no means over. Miss Lensherr, on her brother's entrance, exerted herself much more to talk, and Charles saw that he was anxious for his sister and Charles himself to get acquainted, and forwarded as much as possible, every attempt at conversation on either side. Mr. Janos saw all this likewise; and, in the imprudence of anger, took the first opportunity of saying, with sneering civility:

“Pray, Mr. Charles, are not the ——shire Militia removed from Meryton? They must be a great loss to  _your_  family.”

In Lensherr's presence he dared not mention Shaw's name; but Charles instantly comprehended that he was uppermost in his thoughts; and the various recollections connected with him gave him a moment's distress; but exerting himself vigorously to repel the ill-natured attack, he presently answered the question in a tolerably detached tone. While he spoke, an involuntary glance showed him Lensherr, with a heightened complexion, earnestly looking at him, and his sister overcome with confusion, and unable to lift up her eyes. Had Mr. Janos known what pain he was then giving his beloved friend, he undoubtedly would have refrained from the hint; but he had merely intended to discompose Charles by bringing forward the idea of a man to whom Janos believed him partial, to make him betray a sensibility which might injure him in Lensherr's opinion, and, perhaps, to remind the latter of all the follies and absurdities by which some part of his family were connected with that corps. Not a syllable had ever reached him of Miss Lensherr's meditated elopement. To no creature had it been revealed, where secrecy was possible, except to Charles; and from all McCoy's connections his brother was particularly anxious to conceal it, from the very wish which Charles had long ago attributed to him, of their becoming hereafter his own. He had certainly formed such a plan, and without meaning that it should affect his endeavour to separate him from Miss Xavier, it is probable that it might add something to his lively concern for the welfare of his friend.

Charles's collected behaviour, however, soon quieted his emotion; and as Mr. Janos, vexed and disappointed, dared not approach nearer to Shaw, Moira also recovered in time, though not enough to be able to speak any more. Her brother, whose eye she feared to meet, scarcely recollected her interest in the affair, and the very circumstance which had been designed to turn his thoughts from Charles seemed to have fixed them on him more and more cheerfully.

Their visit did not continue long after the question and answer above mentioned; and while Mr. Lensherr was attending them to their carriage Mr. Janos was venting his feelings in criticisms on Charles's person, behaviour, and dress. But Moira would not join him. Her brother's recommendation was enough to ensure her favour; his judgement could not err. And he had spoken in such terms of Charles as to leave Moira without the power of finding him otherwise than lovely and amiable. When Lensherr returned to the saloon, Mr. Janos could not help repeating to him some part of what he had been saying to his sister.

“How very ill Miss Charles Xavier looks this morning, Mr. Lensherr,” He cried; “I never in my life saw anyone so much altered as he is since the winter. He is grown so brown and coarse! Armando and I were agreeing that we should not have known him again.”

However little Mr. Lensherr might have liked such an address, he contented himself with coolly replying that he perceived no other alteration than him being rather tanned, no miraculous consequence of travelling in the summer.

“For my own part,” Janos rejoined, “I must confess that I never could see any beauty in him. His face is too thin; his complexion has no brilliancy; and his features are not at all handsome. His nose wants character—there is nothing marked in its lines. His teeth are tolerable, but not out of the common way; and as for his eyes, which have sometimes been called so fine, I could never see anything extraordinary in them. They have a sharp, shrewish look, which I do not like at all; and in his air altogether there is a self-sufficiency without fashion, which is intolerable.”

Persuaded as Mr. Janos was that Lensherr admired Charles, this was not the best method of recommending himself; but angry people are not always wise; and in seeing him at last look somewhat nettled, he had all the success he expected. He was resolutely silent, however, and, from a determination of making him speak, he continued:

“I remember, when we first knew him in Hertfordshire, how amazed we all were to find that he was a reputed beauty; and I particularly recollect your saying one night, after they had been dining at Netherfield, ‘ _He_  a beauty!—I should as soon call her mother a wit.’ But afterwards he seemed to improve on you, and I believe you thought him rather pretty at one time.”

“Yes,” replied Lensherr, who could contain himself no longer, “But  _that_  was only when I first saw him, for it is many months since I have considered him as one of the handsomest men of my acquaintance.”

He then went away, and Mr. Janos was left to all the satisfaction of having forced him to say what gave no one any pain but himself.

Mr. Remy and Charles talked of all that had occurred during their visit, as they returned, except what had particularly interested them both. The look and behaviour of everybody they had seen were discussed, except of the person who had mostly engaged their attention. They talked of his sister, his friends, his house, his fruit—of everything but himself; yet Charles was longing to know what Mr. Remy thought of him, and Mr. Remy would have been highly gratified by his nephew's beginning the subject.

 

* * *

 

**Chapter 4**

Charles had been a good deal disappointed in not finding a letter from Raven on their first arrival at Lambton; and this disappointment had been renewed on each of the mornings that had now been spent there; but on the third his repining was over, and his sister justified, by the receipt of two letters from him at once, on one of which was marked that it had been missent elsewhere. Charles was not surprised at it, as Raven had written the direction remarkably ill.

They had just been preparing to walk as the letters came in; and his uncles, leaving him to enjoy them in quiet, set off by themselves. The one missent must first be attended to; it had been written five days ago. The beginning contained an account of all their little parties and engagements, with such news as the country afforded; but the latter half, which was dated a day later, and written in evident agitation, gave more important intelligence. It was to this effect:

_Since writing the above, dearest Charlie, something has occurred of a most unexpected and serious nature; but I am afraid of alarming you—be assured that we are all well. What I have to say relates to poor Emma. An express came at twelve last night, just as we were all gone to bed, from Colonel Rasputin, to inform us that she was gone off to Scotland with one of his officers; to own the truth, with Shaw! Imagine our surprise. To Angel, however, it does not seem so wholly unexpected. I am very, very sorry. So imprudent a match on both sides! But I am willing to hope the best, and that his character has been misunderstood. Thoughtless and indiscreet I can easily believe him, but this step (and let us rejoice over it) marks nothing bad at heart. His choice is disinterested at least, for he must know my father can give her nothing. Our poor mother is sadly grieved. My father bears it better. How thankful am I that we never let them know what has been said against him; we must forget it ourselves. They were off Saturday night about twelve, as is conjectured, but were not missed till yesterday morning at eight. The express was sent off directly. My dear Charlie, they must have passed within ten miles of us. Colonel Rasputin gives us reason to expect him here soon. Emma left a few lines for his wife, informing her of their intention. I must conclude, for I cannot be long from my poor mother. I am afraid you will not be able to make it out, but I hardly know what I have written._

Without allowing himself time for consideration, and scarcely knowing what he felt, Charles on finishing this letter instantly seized the other, and opening it with the utmost impatience, read as follows: it had been written a day later than the conclusion of the first.

_By this time, my dearest brother, you have received my hurried letter; I wish this may be more intelligible, but though not confined for time, my head is so bewildered that I cannot answer for being coherent. Dearest Charlie, I hardly know what I would write, but I have bad news for you, and it cannot be delayed. Imprudent as the marriage between Mr. Shaw and our poor Emma would be, we are now anxious to be assured it has taken place, for there is but too much reason to fear they are not gone to Scotland. Colonel Rasputin came yesterday, having left Brighton the day before, not many hours after the express. Though Emma's short letter to Mrs. R. gave them to understand that they were going to Gretna Green, something was dropped by Denny expressing his belief that S. never intended to go there, or to marry Emma at all, which was repeated to Colonel R., who, instantly taking the alarm, set off from B. intending to trace their route. He did trace them easily to Clapham, but no further; for on entering that place, they removed into a hackney coach, and dismissed the chaise that brought them from Epsom. All that is known after this is, that they were seen to continue the London road. I know not what to think. After making every possible inquiry on that side London, Colonel R. came on into Hertfordshire, anxiously renewing them at all the turnpikes, and at the inns in Barnet and Hatfield, but without any success—no such people had been seen to pass through. With the kindest concern he came on to Longbourn, and broke his apprehensions to us in a manner most creditable to his heart. I am sincerely grieved for him and Mrs. R., but no one can throw any blame on them. Our distress, my dear Charlie, is very great. My father and mother believe the worst, but I cannot think so ill of him. Many circumstances might make it more eligible for them to be married privately in town than to pursue their first plan; and even if he could form such a design against a young woman of Emma's connections, which is not likely, can I suppose her so lost to everything? Impossible! I grieve to find, however, that Colonel R. is not disposed to depend upon their marriage; he shook his head when I expressed my hopes, and said he feared S. was not a man to be trusted. My poor mother is really ill, and keeps her room. Could she exert herself, it would be better; but this is not to be expected. And as to my father, I never in my life saw him so affected. Poor Angel has anger for having concealed their attachment; but as it was a matter of confidence, one cannot wonder. I am truly glad, dearest Charlie, that you have been spared something of these distressing scenes; but now, as the first shock is over, shall I own that I long for your return? I am not so selfish, however, as to press for it, if inconvenient. Adieu! I take up my pen again to do what I have just told you I would not; but circumstances are such that I cannot help earnestly begging you all to come here as soon as possible. I know my dear uncles so well, that I am not afraid of requesting it, though I have still something more to ask of the former. My father is going to London with Colonel Rasputin instantly, to try to discover her. What he means to do I am sure I know not; but his excessive distress will not allow him to pursue any measure in the best and safest way, and Colonel Rasputin is obliged to be at Brighton again to-morrow evening. In such an exigence, my uncle's advice and assistance would be everything in the world; he will immediately comprehend what I must feel, and I rely upon his goodness._

“Oh! Where, where is my uncle?” cried Charles, darting from his seat as he finished the letter, in eagerness to follow him, without losing a moment of the time so precious; but as he reached the door it was opened by a servant, and Mr. Lensherr appeared. Charles’ pale face and impetuous manner made him start, and before he could recover himself to speak, he, in whose mind every idea was superseded by Emma's situation, hastily exclaimed, “I beg your pardon, but I must leave you. I must find Mr. Logan this moment, on business that cannot be delayed; I have not an instant to lose.”

“Good God! What is the matter?" cried he, with more feeling than politeness; then recollecting himself, “I will not detain you a minute; but let me, or let the servant go after Mr. Logan and Mr. Remy. You are not well enough; you cannot go yourself.”

Charles hesitated, but his knees trembled under him and she felt how little would be gained by him attempting to pursue them. Calling back the servant, therefore, he commissioned him, though in so breathless an accent as made him almost unintelligible, to fetch his masters home instantly.

On his quitting the room he sat down, unable to support herself, and looking so miserably ill, that it was impossible for Lensherr to leave him, or to refrain from saying, in a tone of gentleness and commiseration, “Let me call your maid. Is there nothing you could take to give you present relief? A glass of wine; shall I get you one? You are very ill.”

“No, I thank you," he replied, endeavouring to recover himself. “There is nothing the matter with me. I am quite well; I am only distressed by some dreadful news which I have just received from Longbourn.”

He burst into tears as he alluded to it, and for a few minutes could not speak another word. Lensherr, in wretched suspense, could only say something indistinctly of his concern, and observe him in compassionate silence. At length he spoke again. “I have just had a letter from Raven, with such dreadful news. It cannot be concealed from anyone. My younger sister has left all her friends—has eloped; has thrown herself into the power of—of Mr. Shaw. They are gone off together from Brighton.  _You_  know him too well to doubt the rest. She has no money, no connections, nothing that can tempt him to—she is lost for ever.”

Lensherr was fixed in astonishment. “When I consider,” Charles added in a yet more agitated voice, “That I might have prevented it! I, who knew what he was. Had I but explained some part of it only—some part of what I learnt, to my own family! Had his character been known, this could not have happened. But it is all—all too late now.”

“I am grieved indeed,” cried Lensherr; “Grieved—shocked. But is it certain—absolutely certain?”

“Oh, yes! They left Brighton together on Sunday night, and were traced almost to London, but not beyond; they are certainly not gone to Scotland.”

“And what has been done, what has been attempted, to recover her?”

“My father is gone to London, and Raven has written to beg my uncle's immediate assistance; and we shall be off, I hope, in half-an-hour. But nothing can be done—I know very well that nothing can be done. How is such a man to be worked on? How are they even to be discovered? I have not the smallest hope. It is every way horrible!”

Lensherr shook his head in silent acquiescence.

“When  _my_  eyes were opened to his real character—Oh! Had I known what I ought, what I dared to do! But I knew not—I was afraid of doing too much. Wretched, wretched mistake!”

Lensherr made no answer. He seemed scarcely to hear him, and was walking up and down the room in earnest meditation, his brow contracted, his air gloomy. Charles soon observed, and instantly understood it. His power was sinking; everything  _must_  sink under such a proof of family weakness, such an assurance of the deepest disgrace. He could neither wonder nor condemn, but the belief of his self-conquest brought nothing consolatory to his bosom, afforded no palliation of his distress. It was, on the contrary, exactly calculated to make him understand his own wishes; and never had he so honestly felt that he could have loved him, as now, when all love must be vain.

But self, though it would intrude, could not engross Charles. Emma—the humiliation, the misery she was bringing on them all, soon swallowed up every private care; and covering his face with his handkerchief, Charles was soon lost to everything else; and, after a pause of several minutes, was only recalled to a sense of his situation by the voice of his companion, who, in a manner which, though it spoke compassion, spoke likewise restraint, said, “I am afraid you have been long desiring my absence, nor have I anything to plead in excuse of my stay, but real, though unavailing concern. Would to Heaven that anything could be either said or done on my part that might offer consolation to such distress! But I will not torment you with vain wishes, which may seem purposely to ask for your thanks. This unfortunate affair will, I fear, prevent my sister's having the pleasure of seeing you at Pemberley to-day.”

“Oh, yes. Be so kind as to apologise for us to Miss Lensherr. Say that urgent business calls us home immediately. Conceal the unhappy truth as long as it is possible, I know it cannot be long.”

He readily assured him of his secrecy; again expressed his sorrow for his distress, wished it a happier conclusion than there was at present reason to hope, and leaving his compliments for his relations, with only one serious, parting look, went away.

As he quitted the room, Charles felt how improbable it was that they should ever see each other again on such terms of cordiality as had marked their several meetings in Derbyshire; and as he threw a retrospective glance over the whole of their acquaintance, so full of contradictions and varieties, sighed at the perverseness of those feelings which would now have promoted its continuance, and would formerly have rejoiced in its termination.

If gratitude and esteem are good foundations of affection, Charles's change of sentiment will be neither improbable nor faulty. But if otherwise—if regard springing from such sources is unreasonable or unnatural, in comparison of what is so often described as arising on a first interview with its object, and even before two words have been exchanged, nothing can be said in his defence, except that he had given somewhat of a trial to the latter method in his partiality for Shaw, and that its ill success might, perhaps, authorise him to seek the other less interesting mode of attachment. Be that as it may, Charles saw him go with regret; and in this early example of what Emma's infamy must produce, found additional anguish as he reflected on that wretched business. Never, since reading Raven's second letter, had he entertained a hope of Shaw's meaning to marry him. No one but Raven, he thought, could flatter herself with such an expectation. Surprise was the least of his feelings on this development. While the contents of the first letter remained in his mind, he was all surprise—all astonishment that Shaw should marry a girl whom it was impossible he could marry for money; and how Emma could ever have attached him had appeared incomprehensible. But now it was all too natural. For such an attachment as this he might have sufficient charms; and though he did not suppose Emma to be deliberately engaging in an elopement without the intention of marriage, he had no difficulty in believing that neither her virtue nor her understanding would preserve her from falling an easy prey.

He had never perceived, while the regiment was in Hertfordshire, that Emma had any partiality for him; but he was convinced that Emma wanted only encouragement to attach herself to anybody. Sometimes one officer, sometimes another, had been her favourite, as their attentions raised them in her opinion. Her affections had continually been fluctuating but never without an object. The mischief of neglect and mistaken indulgence towards such a girl—oh! How acutely did he now feel it!

He was wild to be at home—to hear, to see, to be upon the spot to share with Raven in the cares that must now fall wholly upon him, in a family so deranged, a father absent, a mother incapable of exertion, and requiring constant attendance; and though almost persuaded that nothing could be done for Emma, his uncle's interference seemed of the utmost importance, and till he entered the room his impatience was severe. Mr. Logan and Mr. Remy had hurried back in alarm, supposing by the servant's account that their nephew was taken suddenly ill; but satisfying them instantly on that head, he eagerly communicated the cause of their summons, reading the two letters aloud, and dwelling on the postscript of the last with trembling energy.— Though Emma had never been a favourite with them, Mr. Logan and Mr. Remy could not but be deeply afflicted. Not Emma only, but all were concerned in it; and after the first exclamations of surprise and horror, Mr. Logan promised every assistance in his power. Charles, though expecting no less, thanked him with tears of gratitude; and all three being actuated by one spirit, everything relating to their journey was speedily settled. They were to be off as soon as possible. “But what is t’ be done about Pemberley?” cried Mr. Remy. “John told us Mr. Lensherr was ‘ere when you sent fer us; _non_?”

“Yes; and I told him we should not be able to keep our engagement.  _That_  is all settled.”

“What is all settled?” repeated the other, as he ran into his room to prepare. “And are dey upon such terms as fer ‘er to disclose da real truth? Oh, dat I knew ‘ow it was!"

But wishes were vain, or at least could only serve to amuse him in the hurry and confusion of the following hour. Had Charles been at leisure to be idle, he would have remained certain that all employment was impossible to one so wretched as himself; but he had his share of business as well as his uncle, and amongst the rest there were notes to be written to all their friends at Lambton, with false excuses for their sudden departure. An hour, however, saw the whole completed; and Mr. Logan meanwhile having settled his account at the inn, nothing remained to be done but to go; and Charles, after all the misery of the morning, found himself, in a shorter space of time than he could have supposed, seated in the carriage, and on the road to Longbourn.

 

* * *

 

**Chapter 5**

“I have been thinking it over again, Charles,” said his uncle, as they drove from the town; “And really, upon serious consideration, I am much more inclined than I was to judge as your eldest sister does on the matter. It appears to me so very unlikely that any young man should form such a design against a girl who is by no means unprotected or friendless, and who was actually staying in his colonel's family, that I am strongly inclined to hope the best. Could he expect that her friends would not step forward? Could he expect to be noticed again by the regiment, after such an affront to Colonel Rasputin? His temptation is not adequate to the risk!”

“Do you really think so?” cried Charles, brightening up for a moment.

“ _Oui_ ,” said Mr. Remy, “I begin t’ be of yer uncle's opinion. It is really too great a violation o’ decency, honour, and interest, fer ‘im to be guilty of. I cannot tink so very ill o’ Shaw. Can you yerself, Charlie, so wholly give ‘im up, as t’ believe ‘im capable of it?”

“Not, perhaps, of neglecting his own interest; but of every other neglect I can believe him capable. If, indeed, it should be so! But I dare not hope it. Why should they not go on to Scotland if that had been the case?”

“In the first place,” replied Mr. Logan, “There is no absolute proof that they are not gone to Scotland.”

“Oh! But their removing from the chaise into a hackney coach is such a presumption! And, besides, no traces of them were to be found on the Barnet road.”

“Well, then—supposing them to be in London. They may be there, though for the purpose of concealment, for no more exceptional purpose. It is not likely that money should be very abundant on either side; and it might strike them that they could be more economically, though less expeditiously, married in London than in Scotland.”

“But why all this secrecy? Why any fear of detection? Why must their marriage be private? Oh, no, no—this is not likely. His most particular friend, you see by Raven's account, was persuaded of his never intending to marry her. Shaw will never marry a woman without some money. He cannot afford it. And what claims has Emma—what attraction has she beyond youth, health, and good humour that could make him, for her sake, forego every chance of benefiting himself by marrying well? As to what restraint the apprehensions of disgrace in the corps might throw on a dishonourable elopement with her, I am not able to judge; for I know nothing of the effects that such a step might produce. But as to your other objection, I am afraid it will hardly hold good. Emma has few men to step forward; and he might imagine, from my father's behaviour, from his indolence and the little attention he has ever seemed to give to what was going forward in his family, that  _he_  would do as little, and think as little about it, as any father could do, in such a matter.”

“But can you think that Emma is so lost to everything but love of him as to consent to live with him on any terms other than marriage?”

“It does seem, and it is most shocking indeed,” replied Charles, with tears in his eyes, “That a sister's sense of decency and virtue in such a point should admit of doubt. But, really, I know not what to say. Perhaps I am not doing her justice. But she is very young; she has never been taught to think on serious subjects; and for the last half-year, nay, for a twelvemonth—she has been given up to nothing but amusement and vanity. She has been allowed to dispose of her time in the most idle and frivolous manner, and to adopt any opinions that came in her way. Since the ——shire were first quartered in Meryton, nothing but love, flirtation, and officers have been in her head. She has been doing everything in her power by thinking and talking on the subject, to give greater—what shall I call it? Susceptibility to her feelings; which are naturally lively enough. And we all know that Shaw has every charm of person and address that can captivate a person.”

“But you see dat Raven,” said his uncle, “Does not think so very ill of Shaw as to believe him capable of the attempt.”

“Of whom does Raven ever think ill? And who is there, whatever might be their former conduct, that she would think capable of such an attempt, till it were proved against them? But Raven knows, as well as I do, what Shaw really is. We both know that he has been profligate in every sense of the word; that he has neither integrity nor honour; that he is as false and deceitful as he is insinuating.”

“And do you really know all dis?” cried Mr. Remy, whose curiosity as to the mode of her intelligence was all alive.

“I do indeed,” replied Charles, colouring. “I told you, the other day, of his infamous behaviour to Mr. Lensherr; and you yourself, when last at Longbourn, heard in what manner he spoke of the man who had behaved with such forbearance and liberality towards him. And there are other circumstances which I am not at liberty—which it is not worth while to relate; but his lies about the whole Pemberley family are endless. From what he said of Miss Lensherr I was thoroughly prepared to see a proud, reserved, disagreeable girl. Yet he knew to the contrary himself. He must know that she was as amiable and unpretending as we have found her.”

“But does Emma know notin’ of dis? Can she be ignorant of what you and Raven seem so well t’ understand?”

“Oh, yes!—that, that is the worst of all. Till I was in Kent, and saw so much both of Mr. Lensherr and his relation Colonel Cable, I was ignorant of the truth myself. And when I returned home, the ——shire was to leave Meryton in a week or fortnight's time. As that was the case, neither Raven, to whom I related the whole, nor I, thought it necessary to make our knowledge public; for of what use could it apparently be to any one, that the good opinion which all the neighbourhood had of him should then be overthrown? And even when it was settled that Emma should go with Mrs. Rasputin, the necessity of opening her eyes to his character never occurred to me. That  _she_  could be in any danger from the deception never entered my head. That such a consequence as  _this_  could ensue, you may easily believe, was far enough from my thoughts.”

“When they all removed to Brighton, therefore, you had no reason, I suppose, to believe them fond of each other?”

“Not the slightest. I can remember no symptom of affection on either side; and had anything of the kind been perceptible, you must be aware that ours is not a family on which it could be thrown away. When first he entered the corps, she was ready enough to admire him; but so we all were. Every girl in or near Meryton was out of her senses about him for the first two months; but he never distinguished  _her_  by any particular attention; and, consequently, after a moderate period of extravagant and wild admiration, her fancy for him gave way, and others of the regiment, who treated her with more distinction, again became her favourites.”

* * *

 It may be easily believed, that however little of novelty could be added to their fears, hopes, and conjectures, on this interesting subject, by its repeated discussion, no other could detain them from it long, during the whole of the journey. From Charles's thoughts it was never absent. Fixed there by the keenest of all anguish, self-reproach, he could find no interval of ease or forgetfulness.

They travelled as expeditiously as possible, and, sleeping one night on the road, reached Longbourn by dinner time the next day. It was a comfort to Charles to consider that Raven could not have been wearied by long expectations.

The little Howletts, attracted by the sight of a chaise, were standing on the steps of the house as they entered the paddock; and, when the carriage drove up to the door, the joyful surprise that lighted up their faces, and displayed itself over their whole bodies, in a variety of capers and frisks, was the first pleasing earnest of their welcome.

Charles jumped out; and, after giving each of them a hasty kiss, hurried into the vestibule, where Raven, who came running down from her mother's apartment, immediately met him.

Charles, as he affectionately embraced her, whilst tears filled the eyes of both, lost not a moment in asking whether anything had been heard of the fugitives.

“Not yet,” replied Raven. “But now that my dear uncle is come, I hope everything will be well.”

“Is my father in town?”

“Yes, he went on Tuesday, as I wrote you word.”

“And have you heard from him often?”

“We have heard only twice. He wrote me a few lines on Wednesday to say that he had arrived in safety, and to give me his directions, which I particularly begged him to do. He merely added that he should not write again till he had something of importance to mention.”

“And my mother—how is she? How are you all?”

“My mother is tolerably well, I trust; though her spirits are greatly shaken. She is up stairs and will have great satisfaction in seeing you all. She does not yet leave her dressing-room. Azazel and Angel, thank Heaven, are quite well.”

“But you—how are you?” cried Charles. “You look pale. How much you must have gone through!”

His sister, however, assured him of her being perfectly well; and their conversation, which had been passing while Mr. Logan and Mr. Remy were engaged with their children, was now put an end to by the approach of the whole party. Raven ran to her uncles, and welcomed and thanked them both, with alternate smiles and tears.

When they were all in the drawing-room, the questions which Charles had already asked were of course repeated by the others, and they soon found that Raven had no intelligence to give. The sanguine hope of good, however, which the benevolence of her heart suggested had not yet deserted her; she still expected that it would all end well, and that every morning would bring some letter, either from Emma or her father, to explain their proceedings, and, perhaps, announce their marriage.

Mrs. Xavier, to whose apartment they all repaired, after a few minutes' conversation together, received them exactly as might be expected; with tears and lamentations of regret, invectives against the villainous conduct of Shaw, and complaints of her own sufferings and ill-usage; blaming everybody but the person to whose ill-judging indulgence the errors of her daughter must principally be owing.

“If I had been able,” said she, “To carry my point in going to Brighton, with all my family,  _this_  would not have happened; but poor dear Emma had nobody to take care of her. Why did the Rasputins ever let her go out of their sight? I am sure there was some great neglect or other on their side, for she is not the kind of girl to do such a thing if she had been well looked after. I always thought they were very unfit to have the charge of her; but I was overruled, as I always am. Poor dear child! And now here's Mr. Xavier gone away, and I know he will fight Shaw, wherever he meets him and then he will be killed, and what is to become of us all? The Cassidyes will turn us out before he is cold in his grave, and if you are not kind to us, brother, I do not know what we shall do.”

They all exclaimed against such terrific ideas; and Mr. Logan, after general assurances of his affection for her and all her family, told her that he meant to be in London the very next day, and would assist Mr. Xavier in every endeavour for recovering Emma.

“Do not give way to useless alarm,” added he; “Though it is right to be prepared for the worst, there is no occasion to look on it as certain. It is not quite a week since they left Brighton. In a few days more we may gain some news of them; and till we know that they are not married, and have no design of marrying, do not let us give the matter over as lost. As soon as I get to town I shall go to my brother, and make him come home with me to Gracechurch Street; and then we may consult together as to what is to be done.”

“Oh! My dear brother,” replied Mrs. Xavier, “That is exactly what I could most wish for. And now do, when you get to town, find them out, wherever they may be; and if they are not married already,  _make_  them marry. And as for wedding clothes, do not let them wait for that, but tell Emma she shall have as much money as she chooses to buy them, after they are married. And, above all, keep Mr. Xavier from fighting. Tell him what a dreadful state I am in, that I am frighted out of my wits—and have such tremblings, such flutterings, all over me—such spasms in my side and pains in my head, and such beatings at heart, that I can get no rest by night nor by day. And tell my dear Emma not to give any directions about her clothes till she has seen me, for she does not know which are the best warehouses. Oh, brother, how kind you are! I know you will contrive it all.”

But Mr. Logan, though he assured her again of his earnest endeavours in the cause, could not avoid recommending moderation to her, as well in her hopes as her fear; and after talking with her in this manner till dinner was on the table, they all left her to vent all her feelings on the housekeeper, who attended in the absence of her children.

Though her brothers were persuaded that there was no real occasion for such a seclusion from the family, they did not attempt to oppose it, for they knew that she had not prudence enough to hold her tongue before the servants, while they waited at table, and judged it better that  _one_  only of the household, and the one whom they could most trust should comprehend all her fears and solicitude on the subject.

In the dining-room they were soon joined by Azazel and Angel, who had been too busily engaged in their separate apartments to make their appearance before. One came from his books, and the other from her toilette. The faces of both, however, were tolerably calm; and no change was visible in either, except that the loss of her favourite sister, or the anger which she had herself incurred in this business, had given more of fretfulness than usual to the accents of Angel. As for Azazel, he was master enough of himself to whisper to Charles, with a countenance of grave reflection, soon after they were seated at table:

“This is a most unfortunate affair, and will probably be much talked of. But we must stem the tide of malice, and pour into the wounded bosoms of each other the balm of sibling consolation.”

Then, perceiving in Charles no inclination of replying, he added, “Unhappy as the event must be for Emma, we may draw from it this useful lesson: that loss of virtue in a person is irretrievable; that one false step involves them in endless ruin; that their reputation is no less brittle than it is beautiful; and that they cannot be too much guarded in her behaviour towards the undeserving of the other sex.”

Charles lifted up her eyes in amazement, but was too much oppressed to make any reply. Azazel, however, continued to console himself with such kind of moral extractions from the evil before them.

In the afternoon, the two elder Xaviers were able to be for half-an-hour by themselves; and Charles instantly availed himself of the opportunity of making any inquiries, which Raven was equally eager to satisfy. After joining in general lamentations over the dreadful sequel of this event, which Charles considered as all but certain, and Miss Xavier could not assert to be wholly impossible, the former continued the subject, by saying, “But tell me all and everything about it which I have not already heard. Give me further particulars. What did Colonel Rasputin say? Had they no apprehension of anything before the elopement took place? They must have seen them together for ever.”

“Colonel Rasputin did own that he had often suspected some partiality, especially on Emma's side, but nothing to give him any alarm. I am so grieved for him! His behaviour was attentive and kind to the utmost. He  _was_  coming to us, in order to assure us of his concern, before he had any idea of their not being gone to Scotland: when that apprehension first got abroad, it hastened his journey.”

“And was Denny convinced that Shaw would not marry? Did he know of their intending to go off? Had Colonel Rasputin seen Denny himself?”

“Yes; but, when questioned by  _him_ , Denny denied knowing anything of their plans, and would not give his real opinion about it. He did not repeat his persuasion of their not marrying—and from  _that_ , I am inclined to hope, he might have been misunderstood before.”

“And till Colonel Rasputin came himself, not one of you entertained a doubt, I suppose, of their being really married?”

“How was it possible that such an idea should enter our brains? I felt a little uneasy—a little fearful of my sister's happiness with him in marriage, because I knew that his conduct had not been always quite right. My father and mother knew nothing of that; they only felt how imprudent a match it must be. Angel then owned, with a very natural triumph on knowing more than the rest of us, that in Emma's last letter she had prepared her for such a step. She had known, it seems, of their being in love with each other, many weeks.”

“But not before they went to Brighton?”

“No, I believe not.”

“And did Colonel Rasputin appear to think well of Shaw himself? Does he know his real character?”

“I must confess that he did not speak so well of Shaw as he formerly did. He believed him to be imprudent and extravagant. And since this sad affair has taken place, it is said that he left Meryton greatly in debt; but I hope this may be false.”

“Oh, Raven, had we been less secret, had we told what we knew of him, this could not have happened!”

“Perhaps it would have been better,” replied his sister. “But to expose the former faults of any person without knowing what their present feelings were, seemed unjustifiable. We acted with the best intentions.”

“Could Colonel Rasputin repeat the particulars of Emma's note to his wife?”

“He brought it with him for us to see.”

Raven then took it from her pocket-book, and gave it to Charles. These were the contents:

_MY DEAR KITTY,_

_You will laugh when you know where I am gone, and I cannot help laughing myself at your surprise to-morrow morning, as soon as I am missed. I am going to Gretna Green, and if you cannot guess with who, I shall think you a simpleton, for there is but one man in the world I love, and he is an angel. I should never be happy without him, so think it no harm to be off. You need not send them word at Longbourn of my going, if you do not like it, for it will make the surprise the greater, when I write to them and sign my name ‘Emma Shaw’. What a good joke it will be! I can hardly write for laughing. Pray make my excuses to Pratt for not keeping my engagement, and dancing with him to-night. Tell him I hope he will excuse me when he knows all; and tell him I will dance with him at the next ball we meet, with great pleasure. I shall send for my clothes when I get to Longbourn; but I wish you would tell Sally to mend a great slit in my worked muslin gown before they are packed up. Good-bye. Give my love to Colonel Rasputin. I hope you will drink to our good journey._

_Your affectionate friend,_

_EMMA XAVIER_

“Oh! Thoughtless, thoughtless Emma!” cried Charles when he had finished it. “What a letter is this, to be written at such a moment! But at least it shows that  _she_  was serious on the subject of their journey. Whatever he might afterwards persuade her to, it was not on her side a  _scheme_  of infamy. My poor father! How he must have felt it!”

“I never saw anyone so shocked. He could not speak a word for full ten minutes. My mother was taken ill immediately, and the whole house in such confusion!”

“Oh! Raven,” cried Charles, “Was there a servant belonging to it who did not know the whole story before the end of the day?”

“I do not know. I hope there was. But to be guarded at such a time is very difficult. My mother was in hysterics, and though I endeavoured to give her every assistance in my power, I am afraid I did not do so much as I might have done! But the horror of what might possibly happen almost took from me my faculties.”

“Your attendance upon her has been too much for you. You do not look well. Oh that I had been with you! You have had every care and anxiety upon yourself alone.”

“Azazel and Angel have been very kind, and would have shared in every fatigue, I am sure; but I did not think it right for either of them. Angel is slight and delicate; and Azazel studies so much, that his hours of repose should not be broken in on. My aunt Munroe came to Longbourn on Tuesday, after my father went away; and was so good as to stay till Thursday with me. She was of great use and comfort to us all. And Lady Summers has been very kind; she walked here on Wednesday morning to condole with us, and offered her services, or any of her children’s, if they should be of use to us.”

“She had better have stayed at home,” cried Charles; “Perhaps she  _meant_  well, but, under such a misfortune as this, one cannot see too little of one's neighbours. Assistance is impossible; condolence insufferable. Let them triumph over us at a distance, and be satisfied.”

She then proceeded to inquire into the measures which her father had intended to pursue, while in town, for the recovery of his daughter.

“He meant I believe,” replied Raven, “To go to Epsom, the place where they last changed horses, see the postilions and try if anything could be made out from them. His principal object must be to discover the number of the hackney coach which took them from Clapham. It had come with a fare from London; and as he thought that the circumstance of a gentleman and lady's removing from one carriage into another might be remarked he meant to make inquiries at Clapham. If he could anyhow discover at what house the coachman had before set down his fare, he determined to make inquiries there, and hoped it might not be impossible to find out the stand and number of the coach. I do not know of any other designs that he had formed; but he was in such a hurry to be gone, and his spirits so greatly discomposed, that I had difficulty in finding out even so much as this.”


	18. Volume III: Chapters 6 - 8

**Chapter 6**

The whole party were in hopes of a letter from Mr. Xavier the next morning, but the post came in without bringing a single line from him. His family knew him to be, on all common occasions, a most negligent and dilatory correspondent; but at such a time they had hoped for exertion. They were forced to conclude that he had no pleasing intelligence to send; but even of  _that_  they would have been glad to be certain. Mr. Logan had waited only for the letters before he set off.

When he was gone, they were certain at least of receiving constant information of what was going on, and their uncle promised, at parting, to prevail on Mr. Xavier to return to Longbourn, as soon as he could, to the great consolation of his sister, who considered it as the only security for her husband's not being killed in a duel.

Mr. Remy and the children were to remain in Hertfordshire a few days longer, as the former thought his presence might be serviceable to his nieces and nephews. He shared in their attendance on Mrs. Xavier, and was a great comfort to them in their hours of freedom. Their aunt also visited them frequently, and always, as she said, with the design of cheering and heartening them up—though, as she never came without reporting some fresh instance of Shaw's extravagance or irregularity, she seldom went away without leaving them more dispirited than she found them.

All Meryton seemed striving to blacken the man who, but three months before, had been almost an angel of light. He was declared to be in debt to every tradesman in the place, and his intrigues, all honoured with the title of seduction, had been extended into every tradesman's family. Everybody declared that he was the wickedest young man in the world; and everybody began to find out that they had always distrusted the appearance of his goodness. Charles, though he did not credit above half of what was said, believed enough to make his former assurance of his sister's ruin more certain; and even Raven, who believed still less of it, became almost hopeless, more especially as the time was now come when, if they had gone to Scotland, which she had never before entirely despaired of, they must in all probability have gained some news of them.

Mr. Logan left Longbourn on Sunday; on Tuesday his husband received a letter from him; it told them that, on his arrival, he had immediately found out his brother, and persuaded him to come to Gracechurch Street; that Mr. Xavier had been to Epsom and Clapham, before his arrival, but without gaining any satisfactory information; and that he was now determined to inquire at all the principal hotels in town, as Mr. Xavier thought it possible they might have gone to one of them, on their first coming to London, before they procured lodgings. Mr. Logan himself did not expect any success from this measure, but as his brother was eager in it, he meant to assist him in pursuing it. He added that Mr. Xavier seemed wholly disinclined at present to leave London and promised to write again very soon. There was also a postscript to this effect:

_I have written to Colonel Rasputin to desire him to find out, if possible, from some of the young man's intimates in the regiment, whether Shaw has any relations or connections who would be likely to know in what part of town he has now concealed himself. If there were anyone that one could apply to with a probability of gaining such a clue as that, it might be of essential consequence. At present we have nothing to guide us. Colonel Rasputin will, I dare say, do everything in his power to satisfy us on this head. But, on second thoughts, perhaps, Charlie could tell us what relations he has now living, better than any other person._

Charles was at no loss to understand from whence this deference to his authority proceeded; but it was not in his power to give any information of so satisfactory a nature as the compliment deserved. He had never heard of his having had any relations, except a father and mother, both of whom had been dead many years. It was possible, however, that some of his companions in the ——shire might be able to give more information; and though he was not very sanguine in expecting it, the application was a something to look forward to.

Every day at Longbourn was now a day of anxiety; but the most anxious part of each was when the post was expected. The arrival of letters was the grand object of every morning's impatience. Through letters, whatever of good or bad was to be told would be communicated, and every succeeding day was expected to bring some news of importance.

But before they heard again from Mr. Logan, a letter arrived for their father, from a different quarter, from Mr. Cassidy; which, as Raven had received directions to open all that came for him in his absence, she accordingly read; and Charles, who knew what curiosities his letters always were, looked over her, and read it likewise. It was as follows:

_MY DEAR SIR,_

_I feel myself called upon, by our relationship, and my situation in life, to condole with you on the grievous affliction you are now suffering under, of which we were yesterday informed by a letter from Hertfordshire. Be assured, my dear sir, that Mr. Cassidy and myself sincerely sympathise with you and all your respectable family, in your present distress, which must be of the bitterest kind, because proceeding from a cause which no time can remove. No arguments shall be wanting on my part that can alleviate so severe a misfortune—or that may comfort you, under a circumstance that must be of all others the most afflicting to a parent's mind. The death of your daughter would have been a blessing in comparison of this. And it is the more to be lamented, because there is reason to suppose as my dear Alex informs me, that this licentiousness of behaviour in your daughter has proceeded from a faulty degree of indulgence; though, at the same time, for the consolation of yourself and Mrs. Xavier, I am inclined to think that her own disposition must be naturally bad, or she could not be guilty of such an enormity, at so early an age. Howsoever that may be, you are grievously to be pitied; in which opinion I am not only joined by Mrs. Cassidy, but likewise by Lady Jean and her daughter, to whom I have related the affair. They agree with me in apprehending that this false step in one daughter will be injurious to the fortunes of all the others; for who, as Lady Jean herself condescendingly says, will connect themselves with such a family? And this consideration leads me moreover to reflect, with augmented satisfaction, on a certain event of last November; for had it been otherwise, I must have been involved in all your sorrow and disgrace. Let me then advise you, dear sir, to console yourself as much as possible, to throw off your unworthy child from your affection for ever, and leave her to reap the fruits of her own heinous offense._

_I am, dear sir, etc., etc._

Mr. Logan did not write again till he had received an answer from Colonel Rasputin; and then he had nothing of a pleasant nature to send. It was not known that Shaw had a single relationship with whom he kept up any connection, and it was certain that he had no near one living. His former acquaintances had been numerous; but since he had been in the militia, it did not appear that he was on terms of particular friendship with any of them. There was no one, therefore, who could be pointed out as likely to give any news of him. And in the wretched state of his own finances, there was a very powerful motive for secrecy, in addition to his fear of discovery by Emma's relations, for it had just transpired that he had left gaming debts behind him to a very considerable amount. Colonel Rasputin believed that more than a thousand pounds would be necessary to clear his expenses at Brighton. He owed a good deal in town, but his debts of honour were still more formidable. Mr. Logan did not attempt to conceal these particulars from the Longbourn family. Raven heard them with horror. “A gamester!” She cried. “This is wholly unexpected. I had not an idea of it.”

Mr. Logan added in his letter, that they might expect to see their father at home on the following day, which was Saturday. Rendered spiritless by the ill-success of all their endeavours, he had yielded to his brother-in-law's entreaty that he would return to his family, and leave it to him to do whatever occasion might suggest to be advisable for continuing their pursuit. When Mrs. Xavier was told of this, she did not express so much satisfaction as her children expected, considering what her anxiety for his life had been before.

“What, is he coming home, and without poor Emma?” She cried. “Sure he will not leave London before he has found them. Who is to fight Shaw, and make him marry her, if he comes away?”

As Mr. Remy began to wish to be at home, it was settled that he and the children should go to London, at the same time that Mr. Xavier came from it. The coach, therefore, took them the first stage of their journey, and brought its master back to Longbourn.

Mr. Remy went away in all the perplexity about Charles and his Derbyshire friend that had attended him from that part of the world. His name had never been voluntarily mentioned before them by his nephew; and the kind of half-expectation which Mr. Remy had formed, of their being followed by a letter from him, had ended in nothing. Charles had received none since his return that could come from Pemberley.

The present unhappy state of the family rendered any other excuse for the lowness of his spirits unnecessary; nothing, therefore, could be fairly conjectured from  _that_ , though Charles, who was by this time tolerably well acquainted with his own feelings, was perfectly aware that, had he known nothing of Lensherr, he could have borne the dread of Emma's infamy somewhat better. It would have spared him, he thought, one sleepless night out of two.

When Mr. Xavier arrived, he had all the appearance of his usual philosophic composure. He said as little as he had ever been in the habit of saying; made no mention of the business that had taken him away, and it was some time before his children had courage to speak of it.

It was not till the afternoon, when he had joined them at tea, that Charles ventured to introduce the subject; and then, on him briefly expressing his sorrow for what he must have endured, he replied, “Say nothing of that. Who should suffer but myself? It has been my own doing, and I ought to feel it.”

“You must not be too severe upon yourself,” replied Charles.

“You may well warn me against such an evil. Human nature is so prone to fall into it! No, Charlie, let me once in my life feel how much I have been to blame. I am not afraid of being overpowered by the impression. It will pass away soon enough.”

“Do you suppose them to be in London?”

“Yes; where else can they be so well concealed?”

“And Emma used to want to go to London,” added Angel.

“She is happy then,” said her father drily; “And her residence there will probably be of some duration.”

Then after a short silence he continued:

“Charlie, I bear you no ill-will for being justified in your advice to me last May, which, considering the event, shows some greatness of mind.”

They were interrupted by Miss Xavier, who came to fetch her mother's tea.

“This is a parade,” He cried, “Which does one good; it gives such an elegance to misfortune! Another day I will do the same; I will sit in my library, in my nightcap and powdering gown, and give as much trouble as I can; or, perhaps, I may defer it till Angel runs away.”

“I am not going to run away, papa,” said Angel fretfully. “If I should ever go to Brighton, I would behave better than Emma.”

“ _You_  go to Brighton. I would not trust you so near it as Eastbourne for fifty pounds! No, Angel, I have at last learnt to be cautious, and you will feel the effects of it. No officer is ever to enter into my house again, nor even to pass through the village. Balls will be absolutely prohibited, unless you stand up with one of your sisters. And you are never to stir out of doors till you can prove that you have spent ten minutes of every day in a rational manner.”

Angel, who took all these threats in a serious light, began to cry.

“Well, well,” said he, “Do not make yourself unhappy. If you are a good girl for the next ten years, I will take you to a review at the end of them.”

 

* * *

 

**Chapter 7**

Two days after Mr. Xavier's return, as Raven and Charles were walking together in the shrubbery behind the house, they saw the housekeeper coming towards them, and, concluding that she came to call them to their mother, went forward to meet her; but, instead of the expected summons, when they approached her, she said to Miss Xavier, “I beg your pardon, madam, for interrupting you, but I was in hopes you might have got some good news from town, so I took the liberty of coming to ask.”

“What do you mean, Hill? We have heard nothing from town.”

“Dear madam,” cried Mrs. Hill, in great astonishment, “Don't you know there is an express come for master from Mr. Logan? He has been here this half-hour, and master has had a letter.”

Away ran the siblings, too eager to get in to have time for speech. They ran through the vestibule into the breakfast-room; from thence to the library; their father was in neither; and they were on the point of seeking him up stairs with their mother, when they were met by the butler, who said:

“If you are looking for my master, ma'am, he is walking towards the little copse.”

Upon this information, they instantly passed through the hall once more, and ran across the lawn after their father, who was deliberately pursuing his way towards a small wood on one side of the paddock.

Raven, who was not so light nor so much in the habit of running as Charles, soon lagged behind, while her brother, panting for breath, came up with him, and eagerly cried out:

“Oh, papa, what news—what news? Have you heard from my uncle?”

“Yes I have had a letter from him by express.”

“Well, and what news does it bring—good or bad?”

“What is there of good to be expected?” said he, taking the letter from his pocket. “But perhaps you would like to read it.”

Charles impatiently caught it from his hand. Raven now came up.

“Read it aloud,” said their father, “For I hardly know myself what it is about.”

_Gracechurch Street, Monday, August 2._

_MY DEAR BROTHER,_

_At last I am able to send you some tidings of my niece, and such as, upon the whole, I hope it will give you satisfaction. Soon after you left me on Saturday, I was fortunate enough to find out in what part of London they were. The particulars I reserve till we meet; it is enough to know they are discovered. I have seen them both—_

“Then it is as I always hoped,” cried Raven; “They are married!”

Charles read on:

_I have seen them both. They are not married, nor can I find there was any intention of being so; but if you are willing to perform the engagements which I have ventured to make on your side, I hope it will not be long before they are. All that is required of you is, to assure to your daughter, by settlement, her equal share of the five thousand pounds secured among your children after the decease of yourself and my sister; and, moreover, to enter into an engagement of allowing her, during your life, one hundred pounds per annum. These are conditions which, considering everything, I had no hesitation in complying with, as far as I thought myself privileged, for you. I shall send this by express, that no time may be lost in bringing me your answer. You will easily comprehend, from these particulars, that Mr. Shaw's circumstances are not so hopeless as they are generally believed to be. The world has been deceived in that respect; and I am happy to say there will be some little money, even when all his debts are discharged, to settle on my niece, in addition to her own fortune. If, as I conclude will be the case, you send me full powers to act in your name throughout the whole of this business, I will immediately give directions to Haggerston for preparing a proper settlement. There will not be the smallest occasion for your coming to town again; therefore stay quiet at Longbourn, and depend on my diligence and care. Send back your answer as fast as you can, and be careful to write explicitly. We have judged it best that my niece should be married from this house, of which I hope you will approve. She comes to us to-day. I shall write again as soon as anything more is determined on._

_Yours, etc…_

_LOGAN HOWLETT_

“Is it possible?” cried Charles, when he had finished. “Can it be possible that he will marry her?”

“Shaw is not so undeserving, then, as we thought him,” said his sister. “My dear father, I congratulate you.”

“And have you answered the letter?” cried Charles.

“No; but it must be done soon.”

Most earnestly did he then entreat him to lose no more time before he wrote.

“Oh! My dear father,” He cried, “Come back and write immediately. Consider how important every moment is in such a case.”

“Let me write for you,” said Raven, “If you dislike the trouble yourself.”

“I dislike it very much,” he replied; “But it must be done.”

And so saying, he turned back with them, and walked towards the house.

“And may I ask—” said Charles; “But the terms, I suppose, must be complied with.”

“Complied with! I am only ashamed of his asking so little.”

“And they  _must_  marry! Yet he is  _such_  a man!”

“Yes, yes, they must marry. There is nothing else to be done. But there are two things that I want very much to know; one is, how much money your uncle has laid down to bring it about; and the other, how am I ever to pay him.”

“Money! My uncle!” cried Raven, “What do you mean, sir?”

“I mean, that no man in his senses would marry Emma on so slight a temptation as one hundred a year during my life, and fifty after I am gone.”

“That is very true,” said Charles; “Though it had not occurred to me before. His debts to be discharged, and something still to remain! Oh! It must be my uncle's doings! Generous, good man, I am afraid he has distressed himself. A small sum could not do all this.”

“No,” said his father; “Shaw's a fool if he takes her with a farthing less than ten thousand pounds. I should be sorry to think so ill of him, in the very beginning of our relationship.”

“Ten thousand pounds! Heaven forbid! How is half such a sum to be repaid?”

Mr. Xavier made no answer, and each of them, deep in thought, continued silent till they reached the house. Their father then went on to the library to write, and the siblings walked into the breakfast-room.

“And they are really to be married!” cried Charles, as soon as they were by themselves. “How strange this is! And for  _this_  we are to be thankful. That they should marry, small as is their chance of happiness, and wretched as is his character, we are forced to rejoice. Oh, Emma!”

“I comfort myself with thinking,” replied Raven, “That he certainly would not marry Emma if he had not a real regard for her. Though our kind uncle has done something towards clearing him, I cannot believe that ten thousand pounds, or anything like it, has been advanced. He has children of his own, and may have more. How could he spare half ten thousand pounds?”

“If he were ever able to learn what Shaw's debts have been,” said Charles, “And how much is settled on his side on our sister, we shall exactly know what Mr. Logan has done for them, because Shaw has not sixpence of his own. The kindness of my uncle and aunt can never be requited. Their taking her home, and affording her their personal protection and countenance, is such a sacrifice to her advantage as years of gratitude cannot enough acknowledge. By this time she is actually with them! If such goodness does not make her miserable now, she will never deserve to be happy! What a meeting for her, when she first sees my uncle!”

“We must endeavour to forget all that has passed on either side,” said Raven: “I hope and trust they will yet be happy. His consenting to marry her is a proof, I will believe, that he is come to a right way of thinking. Their mutual affection will steady them; and I flatter myself they will settle so quietly, and live in so rational a manner, as may in time make their past imprudence forgotten.”

“Their conduct has been such,” replied Charles, “As neither you, nor I, nor anybody can ever forget. It is useless to talk of it.”

It now occurred to the siblings that their mother was in all likelihood perfectly ignorant of what had happened. They went to the library, therefore, and asked their father whether he would not wish them to make it known to her. He was writing and, without raising his head, coolly replied:

“Just as you please.”

“May we take my uncle's letter to read to her?”

“Take whatever you like, and get away.”

Charles took the letter from his writing-table, and they went up stairs together. Azazel and Angel were both with Mrs. Xavier: one communication would, therefore, do for all. After a slight preparation for good news, the letter was read aloud. Mrs. Xavier could hardly contain herself. As soon as Raven had read Mr. Logan's hope of Emma's being soon married, her joy burst forth, and every following sentence added to its exuberance. She was now in an irritation as violent from delight, as she had ever been fidgety from alarm and vexation. To know that her daughter would be married was enough. She was disturbed by no fear for her felicity, nor humbled by any remembrance of her misconduct.

“My dear, dear Emma!” She cried. “This is delightful indeed! She will be married! I shall see her again! She will be married at sixteen! My good, kind brother! I knew how it would be. I knew he would manage everything! How I long to see her! And to see dear Shaw too! But the clothes, the wedding clothes! I will write to my brother Howlett about them directly. Charlie, my dear, run down to your father, and ask him how much he will give her. Stay, stay, I will go myself. Ring the bell, Angel, for Hill. I will put on my things in a moment. My dear, dear Emma! How merry we shall be together when we meet!”

Her eldest daughter endeavoured to give some relief to the violence of these transports, by leading her thoughts to the obligations which Mr. Logan's behaviour laid them all under.

“For we must attribute this happy conclusion,” She added, “In a great measure to his kindness. We are persuaded that he has pledged himself to assist Mr. Shaw with money.”

“Well,” cried her mother, “It is all very right; who should do it but her own uncle? If he had not had a family of his own, I and my children must have had all his money, you know; and it is the first time we have ever had anything from him, except a few presents. Well! I am so happy! In a short time I shall have a daughter married. Mrs. Shaw! How well it sounds! And she was only sixteen last June. My dear Raven, I am in such a flutter, that I am sure I can't write; so I will dictate, and you write for me. We will settle with your father about the money afterwards; but the things should be ordered immediately.”

She was then proceeding to all the particulars of calico, muslin, and cambric, and would shortly have dictated some very plentiful orders, had not Raven, though with some difficulty, persuaded her to wait till her father was at leisure to be consulted. One day's delay, she observed, would be of small importance; and her mother was too happy to be quite so obstinate as usual. Other schemes, too, came into her head.

“I will go to Meryton,” said she, “As soon as I am dressed, and tell the good, good news to my sister Munroe. And as I come back, I can call on Lady Summers and Mrs. Long. Angel, run down and order the carriage. An airing would do me a great deal of good, I am sure. Children, can I do anything for you in Meryton? Oh! Here comes Hill! My dear Hill, have you heard the good news? Miss Emma is going to be married; and you shall all have a bowl of punch to make merry at her wedding.”

Mrs. Hill began instantly to express her joy. Charles received her congratulations amongst the rest, and then, sick of this folly, took refuge in his own room, that he might think with freedom.

Poor Emma's situation must, at best, be bad enough; but that it was no worse, he had need to be thankful. He felt it so; and though, in looking forward, neither rational happiness nor worldly prosperity could be justly expected for his sister, in looking back to what they had feared, only two hours ago, he felt all the advantages of what they had gained.

 

* * *

 

**Chapter 8**

Mr. Xavier had very often wished before this period of his life that, instead of spending his whole income, he had laid by an annual sum for the better provision of his children, and of his wife, if she survived him. He now wished it more than ever. Had he done his duty in that respect, Emma need not have been indebted to her uncle for whatever of honour or credit could now be purchased for her. The satisfaction of prevailing on one of the most worthless young men in Great Britain to be her husband might then have rested in its proper place.

He was seriously concerned that a cause of so little advantage to anyone should be forwarded at the sole expense of his brother-in-law, and he was determined, if possible, to find out the extent of his assistance, and to discharge the obligation as soon as he could.

Five thousand pounds was settled by marriage articles on Mrs. Xavier and the children. But in what proportions it should be divided amongst the latter depended on the will of the parents. This was one point, with regard to Emma, at least, which was now to be settled, and Mr. Xavier could have no hesitation in acceding to the proposal before him. In terms of grateful acknowledgment for the kindness of his brother, though expressed most concisely, he then delivered on paper his perfect approbation of all that was done, and his willingness to fulfil the engagements that had been made for him. He had never before supposed that, could Shaw be prevailed on to marry his daughter, it would be done with so little inconvenience to himself as by the present arrangement. He would scarcely be ten pounds a year the loser by the hundred that was to be paid them; for, what with her board and pocket allowance, and the continual presents in money which passed to her through her mother's hands, Emma's expenses had been very little within that sum.

That it would be done with such trifling exertion on his side, too, was another very welcome surprise; for his wish at present was to have as little trouble in the business as possible. When the first transports of rage which had produced his activity in seeking her were over, he naturally returned to all his former indolence. His letter was soon dispatched; for, though dilatory in undertaking business, he was quick in its execution. He begged to know further particulars of what he was indebted to his brother, but was too angry with Emma to send any message to her.

The good news spread quickly through the house, and with proportionate speed through the neighbourhood. It was borne in the latter with decent philosophy. To be sure, it would have been more for the advantage of conversation had Miss Emma Xavier come upon the town; or, as the happiest alternative, been secluded from the world, in some distant farmhouse. But there was much to be talked of in marrying her; and the good-natured wishes for her well-doing which had proceeded before from all the spiteful old ladies in Meryton lost but a little of their spirit in this change of circumstances, because with such an husband her misery was considered certain.

It was a fortnight since Mrs. Xavier had been downstairs; but on this happy day she again took her seat at the head of her table, and in spirits oppressively high. No sentiment of shame gave a damp to her triumph. The marriage of a child, which had been the first object of her wishes since Raven was sixteen, was now on the point of accomplishment, and her thoughts and her words ran wholly on those attendants of elegant nuptials, fine muslins, new carriages, and servants. She was busily searching through the neighbourhood for a proper situation for her daughter, and, without knowing or considering what their income might be, rejected many as deficient in size and importance.

“Haye Park might do,” said she, “If the Gouldings could quit it—or the great house at Stoke, if the drawing-room were larger; but Ashworth is too far off! I could not bear to have her ten miles from me; and as for Pulvis Lodge, the attics are dreadful.”

Her husband allowed her to talk on without interruption while the servants remained. But when they had withdrawn, he said to her: “Mrs. Xavier, before you take any or all of these houses for your son and daughter, let us come to a right understanding. Into  _one_ house in this neighbourhood they shall never have admittance. I will not encourage the impudence of either, by receiving them at Longbourn.”

A long dispute followed this declaration; but Mr. Xavier was firm. It soon led to another; and Mrs. Xavier found, with amazement and horror, that her husband would not advance a guinea to buy clothes for his daughter. He protested that she should receive from him no mark of affection whatever on the occasion. Mrs. Xavier could hardly comprehend it. That his anger could be carried to such a point of inconceivable resentment as to refuse his daughter a privilege without which her marriage would scarcely seem valid, exceeded all she could believe possible. She was more alive to the disgrace which her want of new clothes must reflect on her daughter's nuptials, than to any sense of shame at her eloping and living with Shaw a fortnight before they took place.

Charles was now most heartily sorry that he had, from the distress of the moment, been led to make Mr. Lensherr acquainted with their fears for his sister; for since her marriage would so shortly give the proper termination to the elopement, they might hope to conceal its unfavourable beginning from all those who were not immediately on the spot.

He had no fear of its spreading farther through his means. There were few people on whose secrecy he would have more confidently depended; but, at the same time, there was no one whose knowledge of a sister's frailty would have mortified him so much—not, however, from any fear of disadvantage from it individually to herself, for, at any rate, there seemed a gulf impassable between them. Had Emma's marriage been concluded on the most honourable terms, it was not to be supposed that Mr. Lensherr would connect himself with a family where, to every other objection, would now be added an alliance and relationship of the nearest kind with a man whom he so justly scorned.

From such a connection he could not wonder that he would shrink. The wish of procuring his regard, which he had assured himself of his feeling in Derbyshire, could not in rational expectation survive such a blow as this. He was humbled, he was grieved; he repented, though he hardly knew of what. He became jealous of his esteem, when he could no longer hope to be benefited by it. He wanted to hear of him, when there seemed the least chance of gaining intelligence. He was convinced that he could have been happy with him, when it was no longer likely they should meet.

What a triumph for him, as Charles often thought, could he know that the proposals which he had proudly spurned only four months ago, would now have been most gladly and gratefully received! He was as generous, he doubted not, as the most generous of his sex; but while he was mortal, there must be a triumph.

Charles began now to comprehend that he was exactly the man who, in disposition and talents, would most suit him. His understanding and temper, though unlike his own, would have answered all his wishes. It was an union that must have been to the advantage of both; by Charles’ ease and liveliness, Lensherr’s mind might have been softened, his manners improved; and from his judgement, information, and knowledge of the world, he must have received benefit of greater importance.

But no such happy marriage could now teach the admiring multitude what connubial felicity really was. An union of a different tendency, and precluding the possibility of the other, was soon to be formed in their family.

How Shaw and Emma were to be supported in tolerable independence, he could not imagine. But how little of permanent happiness could belong to a couple who were only brought together because their passions were stronger than their virtue, he could easily conjecture.

* * *

Mr. Logan soon wrote again to his brother. To Mr. Xavier's acknowledgments he briefly replied, with assurance of his eagerness to promote the welfare of any of his family; and concluded with entreaties that the subject might never be mentioned to him again. The principal purport of his letter was to inform them that Mr. Shaw had resolved on quitting the militia.

 _“It was greatly my wish that he should do so,”_ He added, _“As soon as his marriage was fixed on. And I think you will agree with me, in considering the removal from that corps as highly advisable, both on his account and my niece's. It is Mr. Shaw's intention to go into the regulars; and among his former friends, there are still some who are able and willing to assist him in the army. He has the promise of an ensigncy in General ——'s regiment, now quartered in the North. It is an advantage to have it so far from this part of the kingdom. He promises fairly; and I hope among different people, where they may each have a character to preserve, they will both be more prudent. I have written to Colonel Rasputin, to inform him of our present arrangements, and to request that he will satisfy the various creditors of Mr. Shaw in and near Brighton, with assurances of speedy payment, for which I have pledged myself. And will you give yourself the trouble of carrying similar assurances to his creditors in Meryton, of whom I shall subjoin a list according to his information? He has given in all his debts; I hope at least he has not deceived us. Haggerston has our directions, and all will be completed in a week. They will then join his regiment, unless they are first invited to Longbourn; and I understand from Mr. Remy, that my niece is very desirous of seeing you all before she leaves the South. She is well, and begs to be dutifully remembered to you and her mother._

_—Yours, etc.,_

_L. HOWLETT_

Mr. Xavier and his daughters saw all the advantages of Shaw's removal from the ——shire as clearly as Mr. Logan could do. But Mrs. Xavier was not so well pleased with it. Emma's being settled in the North, just when she had expected most pleasure and pride in her company, for she had by no means given up her plan of their residing in Hertfordshire, was a severe disappointment; and, besides, it was such a pity that Emma should be taken from a regiment where she was acquainted with everybody, and had so many favourites.

“She is so fond of Mrs. Rasputin,” said she, “It will be quite shocking to send her away! And there are several of the young men, too, that she likes very much. The officers may not be so pleasant in General ——'s regiment.”

His daughter's request, for such it might be considered, of being admitted into her family again before she set off for the North, received at first an absolute negative. But Raven and Charles, who agreed in wishing, for the sake of their sister's feelings and consequence, that she should be noticed on her marriage by her parents, urged him so earnestly yet so rationally and so mildly, to receive her and her husband at Longbourn, as soon as they were married, that he was prevailed on to think as they thought, and act as they wished. And their mother had the satisfaction of knowing that she would be able to show her married daughter in the neighbourhood before she was banished to the North. When Mr. Xavier wrote again to his brother, therefore, he sent his permission for them to come; and it was settled, that as soon as the ceremony was over, they should proceed to Longbourn. Charles was surprised, however, that Shaw should consent to such a scheme, and had he consulted only his own inclination, any meeting with him would have been the last object of his wishes.


	19. Volume III: Chapters 9 - 10

**Chapter 9**

Their sister's wedding day arrived; and Raven and Charles felt for her probably more than she felt for herself. The carriage was sent to meet them at ——, and they were to return in it by dinner-time. Their arrival was dreaded by the elder Xavier siblings, and Raven more especially, who gave Emma the feelings which would have attended herself, had she been the culprit, and was wretched in the thought of what her sister must endure.

They came. The family were assembled in the breakfast room to receive them. Smiles decked the face of Mrs. Xavier as the carriage drove up to the door; her husband looked impenetrably grave; her children, alarmed, anxious, uneasy.

Emma's voice was heard in the vestibule; the door was thrown open, and she ran into the room. Her mother stepped forwards, embraced her, and welcomed her with rapture; gave her hand, with an affectionate smile, to Shaw, who followed his lady; and wished them both joy with an alacrity which shewed no doubt of their happiness.

Their reception from Mr. Xavier, to whom they then turned, was not quite so cordial. His countenance rather gained in austerity; and he scarcely opened his lips. The easy assurance of the young couple, indeed, was enough to provoke him. Charles was disgusted, and even Miss Xavier was shocked. Emma was Emma still; untamed, unabashed, wild, noisy, and fearless. She turned from sibling to sibling, demanding their congratulations; and when at length they all sat down, looked eagerly round the room, took notice of some little alteration in it, and observed, with a laugh, that it was a great while since she had been there.

Shaw was not at all more distressed than herself, but his manners were always so pleasing, that had his character and his marriage been exactly what they ought, his smiles and his easy address, while he claimed their relationship, would have delighted them all. Charles had not before believed him quite equal to such assurance; but he sat down, resolving within himself to draw no limits in future to the impudence of an impudent man. He blushed, and Raven blushed; but the cheeks of the two who caused their confusion suffered no variation of colour.

There was no want of discourse. The bride and her mother could neither of them talk fast enough; and Shaw, who happened to sit near Charles, began inquiring after his acquaintance in that neighbourhood, with a good humoured ease which he felt very unable to equal in his replies. They seemed each of them to have the happiest memories in the world. Nothing of the past was recollected with pain; and Emma led voluntarily to subjects which her sisters would not have alluded to for the world.

“Only think of its being three months,” She cried, “Since I went away; it seems but a fortnight I declare; and yet there have been things enough happened in the time. Good gracious! When I went away, I am sure I had no more idea of being married till I came back again! Though I thought it would be very good fun if I was.”

Her father lifted up his eyes. Raven was distressed. Charles looked expressively at Emma; but she, who never heard nor saw anything of which she chose to be insensible, gaily continued, “Oh! Mamma, do the people hereabouts know I am married to-day? I was afraid they might not; and we overtook William Goulding in his curricle, so I was determined he should know it, and so I let down the side-glass next to him, and took off my glove, and let my hand just rest upon the window frame, so that he might see the ring, and then I bowed and smiled like anything.”

Charles could bear it no longer. He got up, and ran out of the room; and returned no more, till he heard them passing through the hall to the dining parlour. He then joined them soon enough to see Emma, with anxious parade, walk up to her mother's right hand, and hear her say to her eldest sister, “Ah! Raven, I take your place now, and you must go lower, because I am a married woman.”

It was not to be supposed that time would give Emma that embarrassment from which she had been so wholly free at first. Her ease and good spirits increased. She longed to see Mrs. Munroe, the Summerses, and all their other neighbours, and to hear herself called “Mrs. Shaw” by each of them; and in the mean time, she went after dinner to show her ring, and boast of being married, to Mrs. Hill and the two housemaids.

“Well, mamma,” said she, when they were all returned to the breakfast room, “And what do you think of my husband? Is not he a charming man? I am sure my siblings must all envy me. I only hope they may have half my good luck. They must all go to Brighton. That is the place to get husbands. What a pity it is, mamma, we did not all go.”

“Very true; and if I had my will, we should. But my dear Emma, I don't at all like your going such a way off. Must it be so?”

“Oh, lord! Yes;—there is nothing in that. I shall like it of all things. You and papa, and my siblings, must come down and see us. We shall be at Newcastle all the winter, and I dare say there will be some balls, and I will take care to get good partners for them all.”

“I should like it beyond anything!” said her mother.

“And then when you go away, you may leave one or two of my siblings behind you; and I dare say I shall get spouses for them before the winter is over.”

“I thank you for my share of the favour,” said Charles; “But I do not particularly like your way of getting husbands.”

Their visitors were not to remain above ten days with them. Mr. Shaw had received his commission before he left London, and he was to join his regiment at the end of a fortnight.

No one but Mrs. Xavier regretted that their stay would be so short; and she made the most of the time by visiting about with her daughter, and having very frequent parties at home. These parties were acceptable to all; to avoid a family circle was even more desirable to such as did think, than such as did not.

Shaw's affection for Emma was just what Charles had expected to find it; not equal to Emma's for him. He had scarcely needed his present observation to be satisfied, from the reason of things, that their elopement had been brought on by the strength of her love, rather than by his; and he would have wondered why, without violently caring for her, he chose to elope with her at all, had he not felt certain that his flight was rendered necessary by distress of circumstances; and if that were the case, he was not the young man to resist an opportunity of having a companion.

Emma was exceedingly fond of him. He was her dear Shaw on every occasion; no one was to be put in competition with him. He did every thing best in the world; and she was sure he would kill more birds on the first of September, than any body else in the country.

One morning, soon after their arrival, as she was sitting with her two elder siblings, she said to Charles:

“Charlie, I never gave  _you_  an account of my wedding, I believe. You were not by, when I told mamma and the others all about it. Are not you curious to hear how it was managed?”

“No really,” replied Charles; “I think there cannot be too little said on the subject.”

“La! You are so strange! But I must tell you how it went off. We were married, you know, at St. Clement's, because Shaw's lodgings were in that parish. And it was settled that we should all be there by eleven o'clock. My uncles and I were to go together; and the others were to meet us at the church. Well, Monday morning came, and I was in such a fuss! I was so afraid, you know, that something would happen to put it off, and then I should have gone quite distracted. And there was my uncle, all the time I was dressing, preaching and talking away just as if he was reading a sermon. However, I did not hear above one word in ten, for I was thinking, you may suppose, of my dear Shaw. I longed to know whether he would be married in his blue coat.”

“Well, and so we breakfasted at ten as usual; I thought it would never be over; for, by the bye, you are to understand, that my uncles were horrid unpleasant all the time I was with them. If you'll believe me, I did not once put my foot out of doors, though I was there a fortnight. Not one party, or scheme, or anything. To be sure London was rather thin, but, however, the Little Theatre was open. Well, and so just as the carriage came to the door, my uncle was called away upon business to that horrid man Mr. Stone. And then, you know, when once they get together, there is no end of it. Well, I was so frightened I did not know what to do, for my uncle was to give me away; and if we were beyond the hour, we could not be married all day. But, luckily, he came back again in ten minutes' time, and then we all set out. However, I recollected afterwards that if he had been prevented going, the wedding need not be put off, for Mr. Lensherr might have done as well.”

“Mr. Lensherr!” repeated Charles, in utter amazement.

“Oh, yes!—he was to come there with Shaw, you know. But gracious me! I quite forgot! I ought not to have said a word about it. I promised them so faithfully! What will Shaw say? It was to be such a secret!”

“If it was to be secret,” said Raven, “Say not another word on the subject. You may depend upon my seeking no further."

“Oh! Certainly,” said Charles, though burning with curiosity; “We will ask you no questions.”

“Thank you,” said Emma, “For if you did, I should certainly tell you all, and then Shaw would be angry."

On such encouragement to ask, Charles was forced to put it out of his power, by running away.

But to live in ignorance on such a point was impossible; or at least it was impossible not to try for information. Mr. Lensherr had been at his sister's wedding. It was exactly a scene, and exactly among people, where he had apparently least to do, and least temptation to go. Conjectures as to the meaning of it, rapid and wild, hurried into his brain; but he was satisfied with none. Those that best pleased him, as placing his conduct in the noblest light, seemed most improbable. He could not bear such suspense; and hastily seizing a sheet of paper, wrote a short letter to his uncle, to request an explanation of what Emma had dropt, if it were compatible with the secrecy which had been intended.

_“You may readily comprehend,”_ He added, _“What my curiosity must be to know how a person unconnected with any of us, and (comparatively speaking) a stranger to our family, should have been amongst you at such a time. Pray write instantly, and let me understand it—unless it is, for very cogent reasons, to remain in the secrecy which Emma seems to think necessary; and then I must endeavour to be satisfied with ignorance.”_

“Not that I  _shall_ , though,” He added to himself, as he finished the letter; “And my dear uncle, if you do not tell me in an honourable manner, I shall certainly be reduced to tricks and stratagems to find it out.”

Raven's delicate sense of honour would not allow her to speak to Charles privately of what Emma had let fall; Charles was glad of it;—till it appeared whether his inquiries would receive any satisfaction, he had rather be without a confidante.

 

* * *

 

**Chapter 10**

Charles had the satisfaction of receiving an answer to his letter as soon as he possibly could. He was no sooner in possession of it than, hurrying into the little copse, where he was least likely to be interrupted, he sat down on one of the benches and prepared to be happy; for the length of the letter convinced him that it did not contain a denial.

_Gracechurch street, Sept. 6._

_MY DEAR NEPHEW,_

_I have just received your letter, and shall devote this whole morning to answering it, as I foresee that a little writing will not comprise what I have to tell you. I must confess myself surprised by your application; I did not expect it from you. Don't think me angry, however, for I only mean to let you know that I had not imagined such inquiries to be necessary on your side. If you do not choose to understand me, forgive my impertinence. Your uncle is as much surprised as I am—and nothing but the belief of your being a party concerned would have allowed him to act as he has done. But if you are really innocent and ignorant, I must be more explicit._

_On the very day of my coming home from Longbourn, your uncle had a most unexpected visitor. Mr. Lensherr called, and was shut up with him several hours. It was all over before I arrived; so my curiosity was not so dreadfully racked as yours seems to have been. He came to tell Mr. Logan that he had found out where your sister and Mr. Shaw were, and that he had seen and talked with them both; Shaw repeatedly, Emma once. From what I can collect, he left Derbyshire only one day after ourselves, and came to town with the resolution of hunting for them. The motive professed was his conviction of its being owing to himself that Shaw's worthlessness had not been so well known as to make it impossible for any young woman of character to love or confide in him. He generously imputed the whole to his mistaken pride, and confessed that he had before thought it beneath him to lay his private actions open to the world. His character was to speak for itself. He called it, therefore, his duty to step forward, and endeavour to remedy an evil which had been brought on by himself. If he had another motive, I am sure it would never disgrace him. He had been some days in town, before he was able to discover them; but he had something to direct his search, which was more than we had; and the consciousness of this was another reason for his resolving to follow us._

_There is a lady, it seems, a Mrs. Younge, who was some time ago governess to Miss Lensherr, and was dismissed from her charge on some cause of disapprobation, though he did not say what. She then took a large house in Edward-street, and has since maintained herself by letting lodgings. This Mrs. Younge was, he knew, intimately acquainted with Shaw; and he went to her for intelligence of him as soon as he got to town. But it was two or three days before he could get from her what he wanted. She would not betray her trust, I suppose, without bribery and corruption, for she really did know where her friend was to be found. Shaw indeed had gone to her on their first arrival in London, and had she been able to receive them into her house, they would have taken up their abode with her. At length, however, our kind friend procured the wished-for direction. They were in —— street. He saw Shaw, and afterwards insisted on seeing Emma. His first object with her, he acknowledged, had been to persuade her to quit her present disgraceful situation, and return to her friends as soon as they could be prevailed on to receive her, offering his assistance, as far as it would go. But he found Emma absolutely resolved on remaining where she was. She cared for none of her friends; she wanted no help of his; she would not hear of leaving Shaw. She was sure they should be married some time or other, and it did not much signify when. Since such were her feelings, it only remained, he thought, to secure and expedite a marriage, which, in his very first conversation with Shaw, he easily learnt had never been his design. He confessed himself obliged to leave the regiment, on account of some debts of honour, which were very pressing; and scrupled not to lay all the ill-consequences of Emma's flight on her own folly alone. He meant to resign his commission immediately; and as to his future situation, he could conjecture very little about it. He must go somewhere, but he did not know where, and he knew he should have nothing to live on._

_Mr. Lensherr asked him why he had not married your sister at once. Though Mr. Xavier was not imagined to be very rich, he would have been able to do something for him, and his situation must have been benefited by marriage. But he found, in reply to this question, that Shaw still cherished the hope of more effectually making his fortune by marriage in some other country. Under such circumstances, however, he was not likely to be proof against the temptation of immediate relief._

_They met several times, for there was much to be discussed. Shaw of course wanted more than he could get; but at length was reduced to be reasonable._

_Every thing being settled between them, Mr. Lensherr's next step was to make your uncle acquainted with it, and he first called in Gracechurch street the evening before I came home. But Mr. Logan could not be seen, and Mr. Lensherr found, on further inquiry, that your father was still with him, but would quit town the next morning. He did not judge your father to be a person whom he could so properly consult as your uncle, and therefore readily postponed seeing him till after the departure of the former. He did not leave his name, and till the next day it was only known that a gentleman had called on business._

_On Saturday he came again. Your father was gone, your uncle at home, and, as I said before, they had a great deal of talk together._

_They met again on Sunday, and then I saw him too. It was not all settled before Monday: as soon as it was, the express was sent off to Longbourn. But our visitor was very obstinate. I fancy, Charlie, that obstinacy is the real defect of his character, after all. He has been accused of many faults at different times, but this is the true one. Nothing was to be done that he did not do himself; though I am sure (and I do not speak it to be thanked, therefore say nothing about it), your uncle would most readily have settled the whole._

_They battled it together for a long time, which was more than either the gentleman or lady concerned in it deserved. But at last your uncle was forced to yield, and instead of being allowed to be of use to his niece, was forced to put up with only having the probable credit of it, which went sorely against the grain; and I really believe your letter this morning gave him great pleasure, because it required an explanation that would rob him of his borrowed feathers, and give the praise where it was due. But, Charlie, this must go no farther than yourself, or Raven at most._

_You know pretty well, I suppose, what has been done for the young people. His debts are to be paid, amounting, I believe, to considerably more than a thousand pounds, another thousand in addition to her own settled upon her, and his commission purchased. The reason why all this was to be done by him alone, was such as I have given above. It was owing to him, to his reserve and want of proper consideration, that Shaw's character had been so misunderstood, and consequently that he had been received and noticed as he was. Perhaps there was some truth in this; though I doubt whether his reserve, or anybody's reserve, can be answerable for the event. But in spite of all this fine talking, my dear Charlie, you may rest perfectly assured that your uncle would never have yielded, if we had not given him credit for another interest in the affair._

_When all this was resolved on, he returned again to his friends, who were still staying at Pemberley; but it was agreed that he should be in London once more when the wedding took place, and all money matters were then to receive the last finish._

_I believe I have now told you every thing. It is a relation which you tell me is to give you great surprise; I hope at least it will not afford you any displeasure. Emma came to us; and Shaw had constant admission to the house. He was exactly what he had been, when I knew him in Hertfordshire; but I would not tell you how little I was satisfied with her behaviour while she staid with us, if I had not perceived, by Raven's letter last Wednesday, that her conduct on coming home was exactly of a piece with it, and therefore what I now tell you can give you no fresh pain. I talked to her repeatedly in the most serious manner, representing to her all the wickedness of what she had done, and all the unhappiness she had brought on her family. If she heard me, it was by good luck, for I am sure she did not listen. I was sometimes quite provoked, but then I recollected my dear Charles and Raven, and for their sakes had patience with her._

_Mr. Lensherr was punctual in his return, and as Emma informed you, attended the wedding. He dined with us the next day, and was to leave town again on Wednesday or Thursday. Will you be very angry with me, my dear Charlie, if I take this opportunity of saying (what I was never bold enough to say before) how much I like him. His behaviour to us has, in every respect, been as pleasing as when we were in Derbyshire. His understanding and opinions all please me; he wants nothing but a little more liveliness, and that, if he marry prudently, his wife may teach him. I thought him very sly;—he hardly ever mentioned your name. But slyness seems the fashion._

_Pray forgive me if I have been very presuming, or at least do not punish me so far as to exclude me from P. I shall never be quite happy till I have been all round the park. A low phaeton, with a nice little pair of ponies, would be the very thing._

_But I must write no more. The children have been wanting me this half hour._

_Yours, very sincerely,_

_R. HOWLETT_

The contents of this letter threw Charles into a flutter of spirits, in which it was difficult to determine whether pleasure or pain bore the greatest share. The vague and unsettled suspicions which uncertainty had produced of what Mr. Lensherr might have been doing to forward his sister's match, which he had feared to encourage as an exertion of goodness too great to be probable, and at the same time dreaded to be just, from the pain of obligation, were proved beyond their greatest extent to be true! He had followed them purposely to town, he had taken on himself all the trouble and mortification attendant on such a research; in which supplication had been necessary to a woman whom he must abominate and despise, and where he was reduced to meet, frequently meet, reason with, persuade, and finally bribe, the man whom he always most wished to avoid, and whose very name it was punishment to him to pronounce. He had done all this for a girl whom he could neither regard nor esteem. His heart did whisper that he had done it for him. But it was a hope shortly checked by other considerations, and he soon felt that even his vanity was insufficient, when required to depend on his affection for him—for a man who had already refused him—as able to overcome a sentiment so natural as abhorrence against relationship with Shaw. Brother-in-law of Shaw! Every kind of pride must revolt from the connection. He had, to be sure, done much. He was ashamed to think how much. But he had given a reason for his interference, which asked no extraordinary stretch of belief. It was reasonable that he should feel he had been wrong; he had liberality, and he had the means of exercising it; and though he would not place herself as his principal inducement, he could, perhaps, believe that remaining partiality for him might assist his endeavours in a cause where his peace of mind must be materially concerned. It was painful, exceedingly painful, to know that they were under obligations to a person who could never receive a return. They owed the restoration of Emma, her character, every thing, to him. Oh! How heartily did he grieve over every ungracious sensation he had ever encouraged, every saucy speech he had ever directed towards him. For himself he was humbled; but he was proud of Lensherr. Proud that in a cause of compassion and honour, he had been able to get the better of himself. Charles read over his uncle's commendation of him again and again. It was hardly enough; but it pleased him. He was even sensible of some pleasure, though mixed with regret, on finding how steadfastly both he and his uncle had been persuaded that affection and confidence subsisted between Mr. Lensherr and himself.

He was roused from his seat, and his reflections, by some one's approach; and before he could strike into another path, he was overtaken by Shaw.

“I am afraid I interrupt your solitary ramble, my dear brother?” said he, as he joined him.

“You certainly do,” He replied with a smile; “But it does not follow that the interruption must be unwelcome.”

“I should be sorry indeed, if it were. We were always good friends; and now we are better.”

“True. Are the others coming out?”

“I do not know. Mrs. Xavier and Emma are going in the carriage to Meryton. And so, my dear brother, I find, from our uncles, that you have actually seen Pemberley.”

She replied in the affirmative.

“I almost envy you the pleasure, and yet I believe it would be too much for me, or else I could take it in my way to Newcastle. And you saw the old housekeeper, I suppose? Poor Reynolds, she was always very fond of me. But of course she did not mention my name to you.”

“Yes, she did.”

“And what did she say?”

“That you were gone into the army, and she was afraid had—not turned out well. At such a distance as  _that_ , you know, things are strangely misrepresented.”

“Certainly,” He replied, biting his lips. Charles hoped he had silenced him; but he soon afterwards said:

“I was surprised to see Lensherr in town last month. We passed each other several times. I wonder what he can be doing there.”

“Perhaps preparing for his marriage with Miss de Grey,” said Charles. “It must be something particular, to take him there at this time of year.”

“Undoubtedly. Did you see him while you were at Lambton? I thought I understood from the Howletts that you had.”

“Yes; he introduced us to his sister.”

“And do you like her?”

“Very much.”

“I have heard, indeed, that she is uncommonly improved within this year or two. When I last saw her, she was not very promising. I am very glad you liked her. I hope she will turn out well.”

“I dare say she will; she has got over the most trying age.”

“Did you go by the village of Kympton?”

“I do not recollect that we did.”

“I mention it, because it is the living which I ought to have had. A most delightful place!—Excellent Parsonage House! It would have suited me in every respect.”

“How should you have liked making sermons?”

“Exceedingly well. I should have considered it as part of my duty, and the exertion would soon have been nothing. One ought not to repine;—but, to be sure, it would have been such a thing for me! The quiet, the retirement of such a life would have answered all my ideas of happiness! But it was not to be. Did you ever hear Lensherr mention the circumstance, when you were in Kent?”

“I have heard from authority, which I thought  _as good_ , that it was left you conditionally only, and at the will of the present patron.”

“You have. Yes, there was something in  _that_ ; I told you so from the first, you may remember.”

“I  _did_  hear, too, that there was a time, when sermon-making was not so palatable to you as it seems to be at present; that you actually declared your resolution of never taking orders, and that the business had been compromised accordingly.”

“You did! And it was not wholly without foundation. You may remember what I told you on that point, when first we talked of it.”

They were now almost at the door of the house, for he had walked fast to get rid of him; and unwilling, for his sister's sake, to provoke him, he only said in reply, with a good-humoured smile:

“Come, Mr. Shaw, we are brothers, you know. Do not let us quarrel about the past. In future, I hope we shall be always of one mind.”

He held out her hand; he kissed it with affectionate gallantry, though he hardly knew how to look, and they entered the house.


	20. Volume III: Chapters 11 - 13

**Chapter 11**

Mr. Shaw was so perfectly satisfied with this conversation that he never again distressed himself, or provoked his dear brother Charles, by introducing the subject of it; and he was pleased to find that he had said enough to keep him quiet.

The day of his and Emma's departure soon came, and Mrs. Xavier was forced to submit to a separation, which, as her husband by no means entered into her scheme of their all going to Newcastle, was likely to continue at least a twelvemonth.

“Oh! My dear Emma,” She cried, “When shall we meet again?”

“Oh, lord! I don't know. Not these two or three years, perhaps.”

“Write to me very often, my dear.”

“As often as I can. But you know married women have never much time for writing. My siblings may write to  _me_. They will have nothing else to do.”

Mr. Shaw's adieus were much more affectionate than his wife's. He smiled, looked handsome, and said many pretty things.

“He is as fine a fellow,” said Mr. Xavier, as soon as they were out of the house, “As ever I saw. He simpers, and smirks, and makes love to us all. I am prodigiously proud of him. I defy even Sir Christopher Summers himself to produce a more valuable son-in-law.”

The loss of her daughter made Mrs. Xavier very dull for several days.

“I often think,” said she, “That there is nothing so bad as parting with one's friends. One seems so forlorn without them.”

“This is the consequence, you see, Madam, of marrying a child,” said Charles. “It must make you better satisfied that your other four are single.”

“It is no such thing. Emma does not leave me because she is married, but only because her husband's regiment happens to be so far off. If that had been nearer, she would not have gone so soon.”

But the spiritless condition which this event threw her into was shortly relieved, and her mind opened again to the agitation of hope, by an article of news which then began to be in circulation. The housekeeper at Netherfield had received orders to prepare for the arrival of her master, who was coming down in a day or two, to shoot there for several weeks. Mrs. Xavier was quite in the fidgets. She looked at Raven, and smiled and shook her head by turns.

“Well, well, and so Mr. McCoy is coming down, sister,” (for Mrs. Munroe first brought her the news). “Well, so much the better. Not that I care about it, though. He is nothing to us, you know, and I am sure  _I_  never want to see him again. But, however, he is very welcome to come to Netherfield, if he likes it. And who knows what  _may_  happen? But that is nothing to us. You know, sister, we agreed long ago never to mention a word about it. And so, is it quite certain he is coming?”

“You may depend on it,” replied the other, “For Mrs. Nicholls was in Meryton last night; I saw her passing by, and went out myself on purpose to know the truth of it; and she told me that it was certain true. He comes down on Thursday at the latest, very likely on Wednesday. She was going to the butcher's, she told me, on purpose to order in some meat on Wednesday, and she has got three couple of ducks just fit to be killed.”

Miss Xavier had not been able to hear of his coming without changing colour. It was many months since she had mentioned his name to Charles; but now, as soon as they were alone together, she said:

“I saw you look at me to-day, Charlie, when my aunt told us of the present report; and I know I appeared distressed. But don't imagine it was from any silly cause. I was only confused for the moment, because I felt that I  _should_  be looked at. I do assure you that the news does not affect me either with pleasure or pain. I am glad of one thing, that he comes alone; because we shall see the less of him. Not that I am afraid of  _myself_ , but I dread other people's remarks.”

Charles did not know what to make of it. Had he not seen him in Derbyshire, he might have supposed him capable of coming there with no other view than what was acknowledged; but he still thought him partial to Raven, and he wavered as to the greater probability of his coming there  _with_  his friend's permission, or being bold enough to come without it.

_“Yet it is hard,”_ He sometimes thought, _“That this poor man cannot come to a house which he has legally hired, without raising all this speculation! I will leave him to himself.”_

In spite of what his sister declared, and really believed to be her feelings in the expectation of his arrival, Charles could easily perceive that her spirits were affected by it. They were more disturbed, more unequal, than he had often seen them.

The subject which had been so warmly canvassed between their parents, about a twelvemonth ago, was now brought forward again.

“As soon as ever Mr. McCoy comes, my dear,” said Mrs. Xavier, “You will wait on him of course.”

“No, no. You forced me into visiting him last year, and promised, if I went to see him, he should marry one of my daughters. But it ended in nothing, and I will not be sent on a fool's errand again.”

His wife represented to him how absolutely necessary such an attention would be from all the neighbouring gentlemen, on his returning to Netherfield.

“‘Tis an etiquette I despise,” said he. “If he wants our society, let him seek it. He knows where we live. I will not spend my hours in running after my neighbours every time they go away and come back again.”

“Well, all I know is, that it will be abominably rude if you do not wait on him. But, however, that shan't prevent my asking him to dine here, I am determined. We must have Mrs. Long and the Gouldings soon. That will make thirteen with ourselves, so there will be just room at table for him.”

Consoled by this resolution, she was the better able to bear her husband's incivility; though it was very mortifying to know that her neighbours might all see Mr. McCoy, in consequence of it, before  _they_  did. As the day of his arrival drew near,—

“I begin to be sorry that he comes at all,” said Raven to her brother. “It would be nothing; I could see him with perfect indifference, but I can hardly bear to hear it thus perpetually talked of. My mother means well; but she does not know, no one can know, how much I suffer from what she says. Happy shall I be, when his stay at Netherfield is over!”

“I wish I could say anything to comfort you,” replied Charles; “But it is wholly out of my power. You must feel it; and the usual satisfaction of preaching patience to a sufferer is denied me, because you have always so much.”

Mr. McCoy arrived. Mrs. Xavier, through the assistance of servants, contrived to have the earliest tidings of it, that the period of anxiety and fretfulness on her side might be as long as it could. She counted the days that must intervene before their invitation could be sent; hopeless of seeing him before. But on the third morning after his arrival in Hertfordshire, she saw him, from her dressing-room window, enter the paddock and ride towards the house.

Her children were eagerly called to partake of her joy. Raven resolutely kept her place at the table; but Charles, to satisfy his mother, went to the window—he looked,—he saw Mr. Lensherr with him, and sat down again by his sister.

“There is a gentleman with him, mamma,” said Angel; “Who can it be?”

“Some acquaintance or other, my dear, I suppose; I am sure I do not know.”

“La!” replied Angel, “It looks just like that man that used to be with him before. Mr. what's-his-name. That tall, proud man.”

“Good gracious! Mr. Lensherr!—and so it does, I vow. Well, any friend of Mr. McCoy's will always be welcome here, to be sure; but else I must say that I hate the very sight of him.”

Raven looked at Charles with surprise and concern. She knew but little of their meeting in Derbyshire, and therefore felt for the awkwardness which must attend her brother, in seeing him almost for the first time after receiving his explanatory letter. Both siblings were uncomfortable enough. Each felt for the other, and of course for themselves; and their mother talked on, of her dislike of Mr. Lensherr, and her resolution to be civil to him only as Mr. McCoy's friend, without being heard by either of them. But Charles had sources of uneasiness which could not be suspected by Raven, to whom he had never yet had courage to shew Mr. Remy's letter, or to relate his own change of sentiment towards him. To Raven, he could be only a man whose proposals he had refused, and whose merit he had undervalued; but to his own more extensive information, he was the person to whom the whole family were indebted for the first of benefits, and whom he regarded himself with an interest, if not quite so tender, at least as reasonable and just as what Raven felt for McCoy. His astonishment at his coming—at his coming to Netherfield, to Longbourn, and voluntarily seeking him again, was almost equal to what he had known on first witnessing his altered behaviour in Derbyshire.

The colour which had been driven from his face, returned for half a minute with an additional glow, and a smile of delight added lustre to his eyes, as he thought for that space of time that his affection and wishes must still be unshaken. But he would not be secure.

“Let me first see how he behaves,” said he; “It will then be early enough for expectation.”

He sat intently at work, striving to be composed, and without daring to lift up his eyes, till anxious curiosity carried them to the face of his sister as the servant was approaching the door. Raven looked a little paler than usual, but more sedate than Charles had expected. On the gentlemen's appearing, her colour increased; yet she received them with tolerable ease, and with a propriety of behaviour equally free from any symptom of resentment or any unnecessary complaisance.

Charles said as little to either as civility would allow, and sat down again to his work, with an eagerness which it did not often command. He had ventured only one glance at Lensherr. He looked serious, as usual; and, he thought, more as he had been used to look in Hertfordshire, than as he had seen him at Pemberley. But, perhaps he could not in his mother's presence be what he was before his uncles. It was a painful, but not an improbable, conjecture.

McCoy, he had likewise seen for an instant, and in that short period saw him looking both pleased and embarrassed. He was received by Mrs. Xavier with a degree of civility which made her two children ashamed, especially when contrasted with the cold and ceremonious politeness of her curtsey and address to his friend.

Charles, particularly, who knew that his mother owed to the latter the preservation of her favourite daughter from irremediable infamy, was hurt and distressed to a most painful degree by a distinction so ill applied.

Lensherr, after inquiring of her how Mr. and Mr. Howlett did, a question which he could not answer without confusion, said scarcely anything. He was not seated by him; perhaps that was the reason of his silence; but it had not been so in Derbyshire. There Lensherr had talked to his friends, when he could not to Charles himself. But now several minutes elapsed without bringing the sound of his voice; and when occasionally, unable to resist the impulse of curiosity, he raised his eyes to his face, he as often found him looking at Raven as at himself, and frequently on no object but the ground. More thoughtfulness and less anxiety to please, than when they last met, were plainly expressed. He was disappointed, and angry with himself for being so.

“Could I expect it to be otherwise!” said she. “Yet why did he come?”

Charles was in no humour for conversation with anyone but himself; and to him he had hardly courage to speak.

He inquired after his sister, but could do no more.

“It is a long time, Mr. McCoy, since you went away,” said Mrs. Xavier.

He readily agreed to it.

“I began to be afraid you would never come back again. People  _did_  say you meant to quit the place entirely at Michaelmas; but, however, I hope it is not true. A great many changes have happened in the neighbourhood, since you went away. Miss Summers is married and settled. And one of my own daughters. I suppose you have heard of it; indeed, you must have seen it in the papers. It was in The Times and The Courier, I know; though it was not put in as it ought to be. It was only said, ‘Lately, George Shaw, Esq. to Miss Emma Xavier,’ without there being a syllable said of her father, or the place where she lived, or anything. It was my brother Howlett's drawing up too, and I wonder how he came to make such an awkward business of it. Did you see it?”

McCoy replied that he did, and made his congratulations. Charles dared not lift up his eyes. How Mr. Lensherr looked, therefore, he could not tell.

“It is a delightful thing, to be sure, to have a daughter well married,” continued his mother, “But at the same time, Mr. McCoy, it is very hard to have her taken such a way from me. They are gone down to Newcastle, a place quite northward, it seems, and there they are to stay I do not know how long. His regiment is there; for I suppose you have heard of his leaving the ——shire, and of his being gone into the regulars. Thank Heaven! He has  _some_  friends, though perhaps not so many as he deserves.”

Charles, who knew this to be levelled at Mr. Lensherr, was in such misery of shame, that he could hardly keep her seat. It drew from him, however, the exertion of speaking, which nothing else had so effectually done before; and he asked McCoy whether he meant to make any stay in the country at present. A few weeks, he believed.

“When you have killed all your own birds, Mr. McCoy,” said her mother, “I beg you will come here, and shoot as many as you please on Mr. Xavier's manor. I am sure he will be vastly happy to oblige you, and will save all the best of the covies for you.”

Charles's misery increased, at such unnecessary, such officious attention! Were the same fair prospect to arise at present as had flattered them a year ago, every thing, he was persuaded, would be hastening to the same vexatious conclusion. At that instant, he felt that years of happiness could not make Raven or himself amends for moments of such painful confusion.

“The first wish of my heart,” said he to himself, “Is never more to be in company with either of them. Their society can afford no pleasure that will atone for such wretchedness as this! Let me never see either one or the other again!”

Yet the misery, for which years of happiness were to offer no compensation, received soon afterwards material relief, from observing how much the beauty of his sister re-kindled the admiration of her former lover. When first he came in, he had spoken to her but little; but every five minutes seemed to be giving her more of his attention. He found her as handsome as she had been last year; as good natured, and as unaffected, though not quite so chatty. Raven was anxious that no difference should be perceived in her at all, and was really persuaded that she talked as much as ever. But her mind was so busily engaged, that she did not always know when she was silent.

When the gentlemen rose to go away, Mrs. Xavier was mindful of her intended civility, and they were invited and engaged to dine at Longbourn in a few days time.

“You are quite a visit in my debt, Mr. McCoy,” She added, “For when you went to town last winter, you promised to take a family dinner with us, as soon as you returned. I have not forgot, you see; and I assure you, I was very much disappointed that you did not come back and keep your engagement.”

McCoy looked a little silly at this reflection, and said something of his concern at having been prevented by business. They then went away.

Mrs. Xavier had been strongly inclined to ask them to stay and dine there that day; but, though she always kept a very good table, she did not think anything less than two courses could be good enough for a man on whom she had such anxious designs, or satisfy the appetite and pride of one who had ten thousand a year.

 

* * *

 

**Chapter 12**

As soon as they were gone, Charles walked out to recover his spirits; or in other words, to dwell without interruption on those subjects that must deaden them more. Mr. Lensherr's behaviour astonished and vexed him.

“Why, if he came only to be silent, grave, and indifferent,” said he, “Did he come at all?”

He could settle it in no way that gave him pleasure.

“He could be still amiable, still pleasing, to my uncle and aunt, when he was in town; and why not to me? If he fears me, why come hither? If he no longer cares for me, why silent? Teasing, teasing, man! I will think no more about him.”

His resolution was for a short time involuntarily kept by the approach of his sister, who joined him with a cheerful look, which showed her better satisfied with their visitors, than Charles.

“Now,” said she, “That this first meeting is over, I feel perfectly easy. I know my own strength, and I shall never be embarrassed again by his coming. I am glad he dines here on Tuesday. It will then be publicly seen that, on both sides, we meet only as common and indifferent acquaintance.”

“Yes, very indifferent indeed,” said Charles, laughingly. “Oh, Raven, take care.”

“My dear Charlie, you cannot think me so weak, as to be in danger now?”

“I think you are in very great danger of making him as much in love with you as ever.”

They did not see the gentlemen again till Tuesday; and Mrs. Xavier, in the meanwhile, was giving way to all the happy schemes, which the good humour and common politeness of McCoy, in half an hour's visit, had revived.

On Tuesday there was a large party assembled at Longbourn; and the two who were most anxiously expected, to the credit of their punctuality as sportsmen, were in very good time. When they repaired to the dining-room, Charles eagerly watched to see whether McCoy would take the place, which, in all their former parties, had belonged to him, by his sister. Her prudent mother, occupied by the same ideas, forbore to invite him to sit by herself. On entering the room, he seemed to hesitate; but Raven happened to look round, and happened to smile: it was decided. He placed himself by her.

Charles, with a triumphant sensation, looked towards his friend. He bore it with noble indifference, and he would have imagined that McCoy had received his sanction to be happy, had he not seen his eyes likewise turned towards Mr. Lensherr, with an expression of half-laughing alarm.

His behaviour to his sister was such, during dinner time, as showed an admiration of her, which, though more guarded than formerly, persuaded Charles, that if left wholly to himself, Raven's happiness, and his own, would be speedily secured. Though he dared not depend upon the consequence, he yet received pleasure from observing his behaviour. It gave him all the animation that his spirits could boast; for he was in no cheerful humour. Mr. Lensherr was almost as far from him as the table could divide them. He was on one side of her mother. He knew how little such a situation would give pleasure to either, or make either appear to advantage. He was not near enough to hear any of their discourse, but he could see how seldom they spoke to each other, and how formal and cold was their manner whenever they did. His mother's ungraciousness, made the sense of what they owed him more painful to Charles's mind; and he would, at times, have given anything to be privileged to tell him that his kindness was neither unknown nor unfelt by the whole of the family.

He was in hopes that the evening would afford some opportunity of bringing them together; that the whole of the visit would not pass away without enabling them to enter into something more of conversation than the mere ceremonious salutation attending his entrance. Anxious and uneasy, the period which passed in the drawing-room, before the gentlemen came, was wearisome and dull to a degree that almost made her uncivil. He looked forward to their entrance as the point on which all his chance of pleasure for the evening must depend.

“If he does not come to me,  _then_ ,” said he, “I shall give him up for ever.”

The gentlemen came; and he thought he looked as if he would have answered his hopes; but, alas! The siblings had crowded round the table, where Miss Xavier was making tea, and Charles pouring out the coffee, in so close a confederacy that there was not a single vacancy near him which would admit of a chair. And on the gentlemen's approaching, one of the siblings moved closer to him than ever, and said, in a whisper:

“The men shan't come and part us, I am determined. We want none of them; do we?”

Lensherr had walked away to another part of the room. Charles followed him with his eyes, envied everyone to whom he spoke, had scarcely patience enough to help anybody to coffee; and then was enraged against himself for being so silly!

_“A man who has once been refused! How could I ever be foolish enough to expect a renewal of his love? Is there one among the sex, who would not protest against such a weakness as a second proposal to the same woman? There is no indignity so abhorrent to their feelings!”_

He was a little revived, however, by his bringing back his coffee cup himself; and he seized the opportunity of saying:

“Is your sister at Pemberley still?”

“Yes, she will remain there till Christmas.”

“And quite alone? Have all her friends left her?”

“Mrs. Annesley is with her. The others have been gone on to Scarborough, these three weeks.”

He could think of nothing more to say; but if he wished to converse with him, he might have better success. He stood by him, however, for some minutes, in silence; and, at last, on the young lady's whispering to Charles again, he walked away.

When the tea-things were removed, and the card-tables placed, the siblings all rose, and Charles was then hoping to be soon joined by him, when all his views were overthrown by seeing him fall a victim to his mother's rapacity for whist players, and in a few moments after seated with the rest of the party. He now lost every expectation of pleasure. They were confined for the evening at different tables, and he had nothing to hope, but that his eyes were so often turned towards his side of the room, as to make him play as unsuccessfully as himself.

Mrs. Xavier had designed to keep the two Netherfield gentlemen to supper; but their carriage was unluckily ordered before any of the others, and she had no opportunity of detaining them.

“Well children,” said she, as soon as they were left to themselves, “What say you to the day? I think every thing has passed off uncommonly well, I assure you. The dinner was as well dressed as any I ever saw. The venison was roasted to a turn—and everybody said they never saw so fat a haunch. The soup was fifty times better than what we had at the Summerses' last week; and even Mr. Lensherr acknowledged, that the partridges were remarkably well done; and I suppose he has two or three French cooks at least. And, my dear Raven, I never saw you look in greater beauty. Mrs. Long said so too, for I asked her whether you did not. And what do you think she said besides? ‘Ah! Mrs. Xavier, we shall have her at Netherfield at last.’ She did indeed. I do think Mrs. Long is as good a creature as ever lived—and her nieces are very pretty behaved girls, and not at all handsome: I like them prodigiously.”

Mrs. Xavier, in short, was in very great spirits; she had seen enough of McCoy's behaviour to Raven, to be convinced that she would get him at last; and her expectations of advantage to her family, when in a happy humour, were so far beyond reason, that she was quite disappointed at not seeing him there again the next day, to make his proposals.

“It has been a very agreeable day,” said Miss Xavier to Charles. “The party seemed so well selected, so suitable one with the other. I hope we may often meet again.”

Charles smiled.

“Charlie, you must not do so. You must not suspect me. It mortifies me. I assure you that I have now learnt to enjoy his conversation as an agreeable and sensible young man, without having a wish beyond it. I am perfectly satisfied, from what his manners now are, that he never had any design of engaging my affection. It is only that he is blessed with greater sweetness of address, and a stronger desire of generally pleasing, than any other man.”

“You are very cruel,” said his sister, “You will not let me smile, and are provoking me to it every moment.”

“How hard it is in some cases to be believed!”

“And how impossible in others!”

“But why should you wish to persuade me that I feel more than I acknowledge?”

“That is a question which I hardly know how to answer. We all love to instruct, though we can teach only what is not worth knowing. Forgive me; and if you persist in indifference, do not make me your confidante.”

 

* * *

 

**Chapter 13**

A few days after this visit, Mr. McCoy called again, and alone. His friend had left him that morning for London, but was to return home in ten days time. He sat with them above an hour, and was in remarkably good spirits. Mrs. Xavier invited him to dine with them; but, with many expressions of concern, he confessed himself engaged elsewhere.

“Next time you call,” said she, “I hope we shall be more lucky.”

He should be particularly happy at any time, etc. etc.; and if she would give him leave, would take an early opportunity of waiting on them.

“Can you come to-morrow?”

Yes, he had no engagement at all for to-morrow; and her invitation was accepted with alacrity.

He came, and in such very good time that the siblings were none of them dressed. In ran Mrs. Xavier to her daughter's room, in her dressing gown, and with her hair half finished, crying out:

“My dear Raven, make haste and hurry down. He is come—Mr. McCoy is come. He is, indeed. Make haste, make haste. Here, Sarah, come to Miss Xavier this moment, and help her on with her gown. Never mind Mr. Charlie's hair.”

“We will be down as soon as we can,” said Raven; “But I dare say Angel is forwarder than either of us, for she went up stairs half an hour ago.”

“Oh! Hang Angel! What has she to do with it? Come be quick, be quick! Where is your sash, my dear?”

But when her mother was gone, Raven would not be prevailed on to go down without one of her siblings.

The same anxiety to get them by themselves was visible again in the evening. After tea, Mr. Xavier retired to the library, as was his custom, and Azazel went up stairs to his instrument. Two obstacles of the five being thus removed, Mrs. Xavier sat looking and winking at Charles and Angel for a considerable time, without making any impression on them. Charles would not observe her; and when at last Angel did, she very innocently said, “What is the matter mamma? What do you keep winking at me for? What am I to do?”

“Nothing child, nothing. I did not wink at you.” She then sat still five minutes longer; but unable to waste such a precious occasion, she suddenly got up, and saying to Angel, “Come here, my love, I want to speak to you,” took her out of the room. Raven instantly gave a look at Charles which spoke her distress at such premeditation, and her entreaty that  _he_  would not give in to it. In a few minutes, Mrs. Xavier half-opened the door and called out:

“Charlie, my dear, I want to speak with you.”

Charles was forced to go.

“We may as well leave them by themselves you know;” said his mother, as soon as he was in the hall. “Angel and I are going up stairs to sit in my dressing-room.”

Charles made no attempt to reason with his mother, but remained quietly in the hall, till she and Angel were out of sight, then returned into the drawing-room.

Mrs. Xavier's schemes for this day were ineffectual. McCoy was every thing that was charming, except the professed lover of her daughter. His ease and cheerfulness rendered him a most agreeable addition to their evening party; and he bore with the ill-judged officiousness of the mother, and heard all her silly remarks with a forbearance and command of countenance particularly grateful to the daughter.

He scarcely needed an invitation to stay supper; and before he went away, an engagement was formed, chiefly through his own and Mrs. Xavier's means, for his coming next morning to shoot with her husband.

After this day, Raven said no more of her indifference. Not a word passed between the siblings concerning McCoy; but Charles went to bed in the happy belief that all must speedily be concluded, unless Mr. Lensherr returned within the stated time. Seriously, however, he felt tolerably persuaded that all this must have taken place with that gentleman's concurrence.

McCoy was punctual to his appointment; and he and Mr. Xavier spent the morning together, as had been agreed on. The latter was much more agreeable than his companion expected. There was nothing of presumption or folly in McCoy that could provoke his ridicule, or disgust him into silence; and he was more communicative, and less eccentric, than the other had ever seen him. McCoy of course returned with him to dinner; and in the evening Mrs. Xavier's invention was again at work to get every body away from him and her daughter. Charles, who had a letter to write, went into the breakfast room for that purpose soon after tea; for as the others were all going to sit down to cards, he could not be wanted to counteract her mother's schemes.

But on returning to the drawing-room, when his letter was finished, he saw, to her infinite surprise, there was reason to fear that his mother had been too ingenious for him. On opening the door, he perceived his sister and McCoy standing together over the hearth, as if engaged in earnest conversation; and had this led to no suspicion, the faces of both, as they hastily turned round and moved away from each other, would have told it all. Their situation was awkward enough; but  _his_  he thought was still worse. Not a syllable was uttered by either; and Charles was on the point of going away again, when McCoy, who as well as the other had sat down, suddenly rose, and whispering a few words to his sister, ran out of the room.

Raven could have no reserves from Charles, where confidence would give pleasure; and instantly embracing his, acknowledged, with the liveliest emotion, that she was the happiest creature in the world.

“‘Tis too much!” She added, “By far too much. I do not deserve it. Oh! Why is not everybody as happy?”

Charles's congratulations were given with a sincerity, a warmth, a delight, which words could but poorly express. Every sentence of kindness was a fresh source of happiness to Raven. But he would not allow herself to stay with his sister, or say half that remained to be said for the present.

“I must go instantly to my mother;” She cried. “I would not on any account trifle with her affectionate solicitude; or allow her to hear it from anyone but myself. He is gone to my father already. Oh! Charlie, to know that what I have to relate will give such pleasure to all my dear family! How shall I bear so much happiness!”

She then hastened away to her mother, who had purposely broken up the card party, and was sitting up stairs with Angel.

Charles, who was left by himself, now smiled at the rapidity and ease with which an affair was finally settled, that had given them so many previous months of suspense and vexation.

“And this,” said he, “Is the end of all his friend's anxious circumspection! Of all his sister's falsehood and contrivance! The happiest, wisest, most reasonable end!”

In a few minutes he was joined by McCoy, whose conference with her father had been short and to the purpose.

“Where is your sister?” said he hastily, as he opened the door.

“With my mother up stairs. She will be down in a moment, I dare say.”

He then shut the door, and, coming up to him, claimed the good wishes and affection of a brother. Charles honestly and heartily expressed his delight in the prospect of their relationship. They shook hands with great cordiality; and then, till his sister came down, he had to listen to all he had to say of his own happiness, and of Raven's perfections; and in spite of his being a lover, Charles really believed all his expectations of felicity to be rationally founded, because they had for basis the excellent understanding, and super-excellent disposition of Raven, and a general similarity of feeling and taste between her and himself.

It was an evening of no common delight to them all; the satisfaction of Miss Xavier's mind gave a glow of such sweet animation to her face, as made her look handsomer than ever. Angel simpered and smiled, and hoped her turn was coming soon. Mrs. Xavier could not give her consent or speak her approbation in terms warm enough to satisfy her feelings, though she talked to McCoy of nothing else for half an hour; and when Mr. Xavier joined them at supper, his voice and manner plainly showed how really happy he was.

Not a word, however, passed his lips in allusion to it, till their visitor took his leave for the night; but as soon as he was gone, he turned to his daughter, and said:

“Raven, I congratulate you. You will be a very happy woman.”

Raven went to him instantly, kissed him, and thanked him for his goodness.

“You are a good girl;” He replied, “And I have great pleasure in thinking you will be so happily settled. I have not a doubt of your doing very well together. Your tempers are by no means unlike. You are each of you so complying, that nothing will ever be resolved on; so easy, that every servant will cheat you; and so generous, that you will always exceed your income.”

“I hope not so. Imprudence or thoughtlessness in money matters would be unpardonable in me.”

“Exceed their income! My dear Mr. Xavier,” cried his wife, “What are you talking of? Why, he has four or five thousand a year, and very likely more.” Then addressing her daughter, “Oh! My dear, dear Raven, I am so happy! I am sure I shan't get a wink of sleep all night. I knew how it would be. I always said it must be so, at last. I was sure you could not be so beautiful for nothing! I remember, as soon as ever I saw him, when he first came into Hertfordshire last year, I thought how likely it was that you should come together. Oh! He is the handsomest young man that ever was seen!”

Shaw, Emma, were all forgotten. Raven was beyond competition her favourite child. At that moment, she cared for no other. Her younger siblings soon began to make interest with her for objects of happiness which she might in future be able to dispense.

Azazel petitioned for the use of the library at Netherfield; and Angel begged very hard for a few balls there every winter.

McCoy, from this time, was of course a daily visitor at Longbourn; coming frequently before breakfast, and always remaining till after supper; unless when some barbarous neighbour, who could not be enough detested, had given him an invitation to dinner which he thought himself obliged to accept.

Charles had now but little time for conversation with his sister; for while he was present, Raven had no attention to bestow on anyone else; but he found himself considerably useful to both of them in those hours of separation that must sometimes occur. In the absence of Raven, he always attached himself to Charles, for the pleasure of talking of him; and when McCoy was gone, Raven constantly sought the same means of relief.

“He has made me so happy,” said she, one evening, “By telling me that he was totally ignorant of my being in town last spring! I had not believed it possible.”

“I suspected as much,” replied Charles. “But how did he account for it?”

“It must have been his brother's doing. They were certainly no friends to his acquaintance with me, which I cannot wonder at, since he might have chosen so much more advantageously in many respects. But when they see, as I trust they will, that their brother is happy with me, they will learn to be contented, and we shall be on good terms again; though we can never be what we once were to each other.”

“That is the most unforgiving speech,” said Charles, “that I ever heard you utter. Good girl! It would vex me, indeed, to see you again the dupe of Mr. Janos’ pretended regard.”

“Would you believe it, Charlie, that when he went to town last November, he really loved me, and nothing but a persuasion of  _my_  being indifferent would have prevented his coming down again!”

“He made a little mistake to be sure; but it is to the credit of his modesty.”

This naturally introduced a panegyric from Raven on his diffidence, and the little value he put on his own good qualities. Charles was pleased to find that he had not betrayed the interference of his friend; for, though Raven had the most generous and forgiving heart in the world, she knew it was a circumstance which must prejudice her against him.

“I am certainly the most fortunate creature that ever existed!” cried Raven. “Oh! Charlie, why am I thus singled from my family, and blessed above them all! If I could but see  _you_  as happy! If there  _were_  but such another man for you!”

“If you were to give me forty such men, I never could be so happy as you. Till I have your disposition, your goodness, I never can have your happiness. No, no, let me shift for myself; and, perhaps, if I have very good luck, I may meet with another Mr. Cassidy in time.”

The situation of affairs in the Longbourn family could not be long a secret. Mrs. Xavier was privileged to whisper it to Mrs. Munroe, and she ventured, without any permission, to do the same by all her neighbours in Meryton.

The Xaviers were speedily pronounced to be the luckiest family in the world, though only a few weeks before, when Emma had first run away, they had been generally proved to be marked out for misfortune.


	21. Volume III: Chapters 14 - 16

**Chapter 14**

One morning, about a week after McCoy's engagement with Raven had been formed, as he and the siblings of the family were sitting together in the dining-room, their attention was suddenly drawn to the window, by the sound of a carriage; and they perceived a chaise and four driving up the lawn. It was too early in the morning for visitors, and besides, the equipage did not answer to that of any of their neighbours. The horses were post; and neither the carriage, nor the livery of the servant who preceded it, were familiar to them. As it was certain, however, that somebody was coming, McCoy instantly prevailed on Miss Xavier to avoid the confinement of such an intrusion, and walk away with him into the shrubbery. They both set off, and the conjectures of the remaining three continued, though with little satisfaction, till the door was thrown open and their visitor entered. It was Lady Jean de Grey.

They were of course all intending to be surprised; but their astonishment was beyond their expectation; and on the part of Mrs. Xavier and Angel, though she was perfectly unknown to them, even inferior to what Charles felt.

She entered the room with an air more than usually ungracious, made no other reply to Charles's salutation than a slight inclination of the head, and sat down without saying a word. Charles had mentioned her name to his mother on her ladyship's entrance, though no request of introduction had been made.

Mrs. Xavier, all amazement, though flattered by having a guest of such high importance, received her with the utmost politeness. After sitting for a moment in silence, she said very stiffly to Charles,

“I hope you are well, Mr. Xavier. That lady, I suppose, is your mother.”

Charles replied very concisely that she was.

“And  _that_  I suppose is one of your sisters.”

“Yes, madam,” said Mrs. Xavier, delighted to speak to Lady Jean. “She is my youngest girl but one. My youngest of all is lately married, and my eldest is somewhere about the grounds, walking with a young man who, I believe, will soon become a part of the family.”

“You have a very small park here,” returned Lady Jean after a short silence.

“It is nothing in comparison of Rosings, my lady, I dare say; but I assure you it is much larger than Sir Christopher Summers's.”

“This must be a most inconvenient sitting room for the evening, in summer; the windows are full west.”

Mrs. Xavier assured her that they never sat there after dinner, and then added:

“May I take the liberty of asking your ladyship whether you left Mr. and Mr. Cassidy well.”

“Yes, very well. I saw them the night before last.”

Charles now expected that she would produce a letter for him from Alex, as it seemed the only probable motive for her calling. But no letter appeared, and he was completely puzzled.

Mrs. Xavier, with great civility, begged her ladyship to take some refreshment; but Lady Jean very resolutely, and not very politely, declined eating anything; and then, rising up, said to Charles,

“Mr. Xavier, there seemed to be a prettyish kind of a little wilderness on one side of your lawn. I should be glad to take a turn in it, if you will favour me with your company.”

“Go, my dear,” cried his mother, “And show her ladyship about the different walks. I think she will be pleased with the hermitage.”

Charles obeyed, and running into his own room for a parasol, attended his noble guest downstairs. As they passed through the hall, Lady Jean opened the doors into the dining-parlour and drawing-room, and pronouncing them, after a short survey, to be decent looking rooms, walked on.

Her carriage remained at the door, and Charles saw that her waiting-woman was in it. They proceeded in silence along the gravel walk that led to the copse; Charles was determined to make no effort for conversation with a woman who was now more than usually insolent and disagreeable.

“How could I ever think her like her nephew?” said he, as he looked in her face.

As soon as they entered the copse, Lady Jean began in the following manner:—

“You can be at no loss, Miss Xavier, to understand the reason of my journey hither. Your own heart, your own conscience, must tell you why I come.”

Charles looked with unaffected astonishment.

“Indeed, you are mistaken, Madam. I have not been at all able to account for the honour of seeing you here.”

“Mr. Xavier,” replied her ladyship, in an angry tone, “You ought to know, that I am not to be trifled with. But however insincere  _you_  may choose to be, you shall not find  _me_  so. My character has ever been celebrated for its sincerity and frankness, and in a cause of such moment as this, I shall certainly not depart from it. A report of a most alarming nature reached me two days ago. I was told that not only your sister was on the point of being most advantageously married, but that you, that Mr. Charles Xavier, would, in all likelihood, be soon afterwards united to my nephew, my own nephew, Mr. Lensherr. Though I  _know_  it must be a scandalous falsehood, though I would not injure him so much as to suppose the truth of it possible, I instantly resolved on setting off for this place, that I might make my sentiments known to you.”

Hard, focused pressure on Charles’ mind enlightened him to the true actions of Lady Jean de Grey. She was attempting to enter his mind! As he did the first time Lady Jean attempted to intrude on his thoughts, Charles forced the presence from his mind, making Lady Jean scowl at him unattractively.

“If you believed it impossible to be true,” said Charles, colouring with astonishment and disdain, “I wonder you took the trouble of coming so far. What could your ladyship propose by it?”

“At once to insist upon having such a report universally contradicted.” Lady Jean fought against Charles’ mental wall valiantly, attempting to enter his mind in the rudest way possible. Charles had never met someone with powers to blatantly abuse them upon another person. Charles had been admonished since birth to _never_ enter another mind unwillingly, since it was one of the biggest violations he could commit. It appeared Lady Jean never got that lesson.

“Your coming to Longbourn, to see me and my family,” said Charles coolly, “Will be rather a confirmation of it; if, indeed, such a report is in existence.”

“If! Do you then pretend to be ignorant of it? Has it not been industriously circulated by yourselves? Do you not know that such a report is spread abroad?”

“I never heard that it was.”

“And can you likewise declare, that there is no foundation for it?”

“I do not pretend to possess equal frankness with your ladyship. You may ask questions which I shall not choose to answer.”

“This is not to be borne. Mr. Xavier, I insist on being satisfied. Has he, has my nephew, made you an offer of marriage?” Charles decided to end the mental conflict they were engaged in with a simple demonstration. His uncles Howlett had been giving him the permission and space to practice some of his abilities. One such power was projecting his thoughts into another mind _without_ invading it.

_“Your ladyship has declared it to be impossible.”_ Lady Jean looked like Charles had slapped her. Her pressure on his mind increased and Charles shoved the pressure back with force, silently trying to tell her to back off.

_“It ought to be so; it must be so, while he retains the use of his reason. But your arts and allurements may, in a moment of infatuation, have made him forget what he owes to himself and to all his family. You may have drawn him in.”_ In the same way that he had projected _his_ thoughts, Lady Jean had projected her thoughts into his mind. She had to have figured out that she wasn’t entering his mind without his permission any time soon and given up her suit.

_“If I have, I shall be the last person to confess it.”_

_“Mr. Xavier, do you know who I am? I have not been accustomed to such language as this. I am almost the nearest relation he has in the world, and am entitled to know all his dearest concerns.”_

_“But you are not entitled to know mine; nor will such behaviour as this, ever induce me to be explicit.”_

_“Let me be rightly understood. This match, to which you have the presumption to aspire, can never take place. No, never. Mr. Lensherr is engaged to my daughter. Now what have you to say?”_

_“Only this; that if he is so, you can have no reason to suppose he will make an offer to me.”_

Lady Jean hesitated for a moment, and then replied:

_“The engagement between them is of a peculiar kind. From their infancy, they have been intended for each other. It was the favourite wish of his mother, as well as of hers. While in their cradles, we planned the union: and now, at the moment when the wishes of both sisters would be accomplished in their marriage, to be prevented by a young man of inferior birth, of no importance in the world, and wholly unallied to the family! Do you pay no regard to the wishes of his friends? To his tacit engagement with Miss de Grey? Are you lost to every feeling of propriety and delicacy? Have you not heard me say that from his earliest hours he was destined for his cousin?”_

_“Yes, and I had heard it before. But what is that to me? If there is no other objection to my marrying your nephew, I shall certainly not be kept from it by knowing that his mother and aunt wished him to marry Miss de Grey. You both did as much as you could in planning the marriage. Its completion depended on others. If Mr. Lensherr is neither by honour nor inclination confined to his cousin, why is not he to make another choice? And if I am that choice, why may not I accept him?”_

_“Because honour, decorum, prudence, nay, interest, forbid it. Yes, Mr. Xavier, interest; for do not expect to be noticed by his family or friends, if you wilfully act against the inclinations of all. You will be censured, slighted, and despised, by everyone connected with him. Your alliance will be a disgrace; your name will never even be mentioned by any of us.”_

_“These are heavy misfortunes,”_ replied Charles. _“But the spouse of Mr. Lensherr must have such extraordinary sources of happiness necessarily attached to their situation, that they could, upon the whole, have no cause to repine.”_

_“Obstinate, headstrong boy! I am ashamed of you! Is this your gratitude for my attentions to you last spring? Is nothing due to me on that score? Let us sit down. You are to understand, Mr. Xavier, that I came here with the determined resolution of carrying my purpose; nor will I be dissuaded from it. I have not been used to submit to any person's whims. I have not been in the habit of brooking disappointment.”_

_“That will make your ladyship's situation at present more pitiable; but it will have no effect on me.”_

_“I will not be interrupted. Hear me in silence. My daughter and my nephew are formed for each other. They are descended, on the maternal side, from the same noble line; and, on the father's, from respectable, honourable, and ancient—though untitled—families. Their fortune on both sides is splendid. They are destined for each other by the voice of every member of their respective houses; and what is to divide them? The upstart pretensions of a young man without family, connections, or fortune. Is this to be endured! But it must not, shall not be. If you were sensible of your own good, you would not wish to quit the sphere in which you have been brought up.”_

_“In marrying your nephew, I should not consider myself as quitting that sphere. He is a gentleman; I am a gentleman's son; so far we are equal.”_

_“True. You are a gentleman's son. But who was your mother? Who are your uncles and aunts? Do not imagine me ignorant of their condition.”_

_“Whatever my connections may be,”_ said Charles, _“If your nephew does not object to them, they can be nothing to you.”_

_“Tell me once for all, are you engaged to him?”_

Though Charles would not, for the mere purpose of obliging Lady Jean, have answered this question, he could not but say, after a moment's deliberation:

_“I am not.”_

Lady Jean seemed pleased.

_“And will you promise me, never to enter into such an engagement?”_

_“I will make no promise of the kind.”_

_“Mr. Xavier I am shocked and astonished. I expected to find a more reasonable young man. But do not deceive yourself into a belief that I will ever recede. I shall not go away till you have given me the assurance I require.”_

_“And I certainly never shall give it. I am not to be intimidated into anything so wholly unreasonable. Your ladyship wants Mr. Lensherr to marry your daughter; but would my giving you the wished-for promise make their marriage at all more probable? Supposing him to be attached to me, would my refusing to accept his hand make him wish to bestow it on his cousin? Allow me to say, Lady Jean, that the arguments with which you have supported this extraordinary application have been as frivolous as the application was ill-judged. You have widely mistaken my character, if you think I can be worked on by such persuasions as these. How far your nephew might approve of your interference in his affairs, I cannot tell; but you have certainly no right to concern yourself in mine. I must beg, therefore, to be importuned no farther on the subject.”_

_“Not so hasty, if you please. I have by no means done. To all the objections I have already urged, I have still another to add. I am no stranger to the particulars of your youngest sister's infamous elopement. I know it all; that the young man's marrying her was a patched-up business, at the expence of your father and uncles. And is such a girl to be my nephew's sister? Is her husband, is the son of his late father's steward, to be his brother? Heaven and earth!—of what are you thinking? Are the shades of Pemberley to be thus polluted?”_

“You can now have nothing further to say,” He resentfully answered out loud. He had decided to stop playing her game at her incessant insults. “You have insulted me in every possible method. I must beg to return to the house.”

And he rose as he spoke. Lady Jean rose also, and they turned back. Her ladyship was highly incensed.

_“You have no regard, then, for the honour and credit of my nephew! Unfeeling, selfish boy! Do you not consider that a connection with you must disgrace him in the eyes of everybody?”_

“Lady Jean, I have nothing further to say. You know my sentiments.”

“You are then resolved to have him?” Lady Jean also gave up her mental communication.

“I have said no such thing. I am only resolved to act in that manner, which will, in my own opinion, constitute my happiness, without reference to  _you_ , or to any person so wholly unconnected with me.”

“It is well. You refuse, then, to oblige me. You refuse to obey the claims of duty, honour, and gratitude. You are determined to ruin him in the opinion of all his friends, and make him the contempt of the world.”

“Neither duty, nor honour, nor gratitude,” replied Charles, “Have any possible claim on me, in the present instance. No principle of either would be violated by my marriage with Mr. Lensherr. And with regard to the resentment of his family, or the indignation of the world, if the former  _were_  excited by his marrying me, it would not give me one moment's concern—and the world in general would have too much sense to join in the scorn.”

“And this is your real opinion! This is your final resolve! Very well. I shall now know how to act. Do not imagine, Mr. Xavier, that your ambition will ever be gratified. I came to try you. I hoped to find you reasonable; but, depend upon it, I will carry my point.”

In this manner Lady Jean talked on, till they were at the door of the carriage, when, turning hastily round, she added, “I take no leave of you, Miss Xavier. I send no compliments to your mother. You deserve no such attention. I am most seriously displeased.”

Charles made no answer; and without attempting to persuade her ladyship to return into the house, walked quietly into it herself. He heard the carriage drive away as he proceeded up stairs. His mother impatiently met him at the door of the dressing-room, to ask why Lady Jean would not come in again and rest herself.

“She did not choose it,” said her son, “She would go.”

“She is a very fine-looking woman! And her calling here was prodigiously civil! For she only came, I suppose, to tell us the Cassidyes were well. She is on her road somewhere, I dare say, and so, passing through Meryton, thought she might as well call on you. I suppose she had nothing particular to say to you, Charlie?”

Charles was forced to give into a little falsehood here; for to acknowledge the substance of their conversation was impossible.

 

* * *

 

**Chapter 15**

The discomposure of spirits which this extraordinary visit threw Charles into, could not be easily overcome; nor could he, for many hours, learn to think of it less than incessantly. Lady Jean, it appeared, had actually taken the trouble of this journey from Rosings, for the sole purpose of breaking off his supposed engagement with Mr. Lensherr. It was a rational scheme, to be sure! but from what the report of their engagement could originate, Charles was at a loss to imagine; till he recollected that  _his_  being the intimate friend of McCoy, and  _him_  being the sister of Raven, was enough, at a time when the expectation of one wedding made everybody eager for another, to supply the idea. He had not himself forgotten to feel that the marriage of his sister must bring them more frequently together. And his neighbours at Lucas Lodge, therefore (for through their communication with the Cassidyes, the report, he concluded, had reached Lady Jean), had only set that down as almost certain and immediate, which he had looked forward to as possible at some future time.

In revolving Lady Jean's expressions, however, he could not help feeling some uneasiness as to the possible consequence of her persisting in this interference. From what she had said of her resolution to prevent their marriage, it occurred to Charles that she must meditate an application to her nephew; and how  _he_  might take a similar representation of the evils attached to a connection with her, he dared not pronounce. He knew not the exact degree of his affection for his aunt, or his dependence on her judgment, but it was natural to suppose that he thought much higher of her ladyship than  _he_  could do; and it was certain that, in enumerating the miseries of a marriage with  _one_ , whose immediate connections were so unequal to his own, his aunt would address him on his weakest side. With his notions of dignity, he would probably feel that the arguments, which to Charles had appeared weak and ridiculous, contained much good sense and solid reasoning.

If he had been wavering before as to what he should do, which had often seemed likely, the advice and entreaty of so near a relation might settle every doubt, and determine him at once to be as happy as dignity unblemished could make him. In that case he would return no more. Lady Jean might see him in her way through town; and his engagement to McCoy of coming again to Netherfield must give way.

“If, therefore, an excuse for not keeping his promise should come to his friend within a few days,” he added, “I shall know how to understand it. I shall then give over every expectation, every wish of his constancy. If he is satisfied with only regretting me, when he might have obtained my affections and hand, I shall soon cease to regret him at all.”

* * *

The surprise of the rest of the family, on hearing who their visitor had been, was very great; but they obligingly satisfied it, with the same kind of supposition which had appeased Mrs. Xavier's curiosity; and Charles was spared from much teasing on the subject.

The next morning, as he was going downstairs, he was met by her father, who came out of his library with a letter in his hand.

“Charlie,” said he, “I was going to look for you; come into my room.”

He followed him thither; and his curiosity to know what he had to tell him was heightened by the supposition of its being in some manner connected with the letter he held. It suddenly struck him that it might be from Lady Jean; and he anticipated with dismay all the consequent explanations.

He followed her father to the fire place, and they both sat down. He then said,

“I have received a letter this morning that has astonished me exceedingly. As it principally concerns yourself, you ought to know its contents. I did not know before, that I had two children on the brink of matrimony. Let me congratulate you on a very important conquest.”

The colour now rushed into Charles's cheeks in the instantaneous conviction of its being a letter from the nephew, instead of the aunt; and he was undetermined whether most to be pleased that he explained himself at all, or offended that his letter was not rather addressed to himself; when her father continued:

“You look conscious. Young people have great penetration in such matters as these; but I think I may defy even  _your_  sagacity, to discover the name of your admirer. This letter is from Mr. Cassidy.”

“From Mr. Cassidy! And what can  _he_  have to say?”

“Something very much to the purpose of course. He begins with congratulations on the approaching nuptials of my eldest daughter, of which, it seems, he has been told by some of the good-natured, gossiping Summerses. I shall not sport with your impatience, by reading what he says on that point. What relates to yourself, is as follows: _‘Having thus offered you the sincere congratulations of Mr. Cassidy and myself on this happy event, let me now add a short hint on the subject of another; of which we have been advertised by the same authority. Your son Charles, it is presumed, will not long bear the name of Xavier, after his elder sister has resigned it, and the chosen partner of her fate may be reasonably looked up to as one of the most illustrious personages in this land.’_

“Can you possibly guess, Charlie, who is meant by this? _‘This young gentleman is blessed, in a peculiar way, with every thing the heart of mortal can most desire,—splendid property, noble kindred, and extensive patronage. Yet in spite of all these temptations, let me warn my cousin Charles, and yourself, of what evils you may incur by a precipitate closure with this gentleman's proposals, which, of course, you will be inclined to take immediate advantage of.’_

“Have you any idea, Charlie, who this gentleman is? But now it comes out:

_‘My motive for cautioning you is as follows. We have reason to imagine that his aunt, Lady Jean de Grey, does not look on the match with a friendly eye.’_

“ _Mr. Lensherr_ , you see, is the man! Now, Charlie, I think I  _have_  surprised you. Could he, or the Summerses, have pitched on any man within the circle of our acquaintance, whose name would have given the lie more effectually to what they related? Mr. Lensherr, who never looks at any person but to see a blemish, and who probably never looked at you in his life! It is admirable!”

Charles tried to join in his father's pleasantry, but could only force one most reluctant smile. Never had his wit been directed in a manner so little agreeable to him.

“Are you not diverted?”

“Oh! yes. Pray read on.”

“ _‘After mentioning the likelihood of this marriage to her ladyship last night, she immediately, with her usual condescension, expressed what she felt on the occasion; when it became apparent, that on the score of some family objections on the part of my cousin, she would never give her consent to what she termed so disgraceful a match. I thought it my duty to give the speediest intelligence of this to my cousin, that he and his noble admirer may be aware of what they are about, and not run hastily into a marriage which has not been properly sanctioned.’_ Mr. Cassidy moreover adds, _‘I am truly rejoiced that my cousin Emma's sad business has been so well hushed up, and am only concerned that their living together before the marriage took place should be so generally known. I must not, however, neglect the duties of my station, or refrain from declaring my amazement at hearing that you received the young couple into your house as soon as they were married. It was an encouragement of vice; and had I been the rector of Longbourn, I should very strenuously have opposed it. You ought certainly to forgive them, as a Christian, but never to admit them in your sight, or allow their names to be mentioned in your hearing.’_ That is his notion of Christian forgiveness! The rest of his letter is only about his dear Alex's situation, and his expectation of a young olive-branch. But, Charlie, you look as if you did not enjoy it. You are not going to be  _missish_ , I hope, and pretend to be affronted at an idle report. For what do we live, but to make sport for our neighbours, and laugh at them in our turn?”

“Oh!” cried Charles, “I am excessively diverted. But it is so strange!”

“Yes— _that_  is what makes it amusing. Had they fixed on any other man it would have been nothing; but  _his_  perfect indifference, and  _your_  pointed dislike, make it so delightfully absurd! Much as I abominate writing, I would not give up Mr. Cassidy's correspondence for any consideration. Nay, when I read a letter of his, I cannot help giving him the preference even over Shaw, much as I value the impudence and hypocrisy of my son-in-law. And pray, Charlie, what said Lady Jean about this report? Did she call to refuse her consent?”

To this question his son replied only with a laugh; and as it had been asked without the least suspicion, he was not distressed by his repeating it. Charles had never been more at a loss to make his feelings appear what they were not. It was necessary to laugh, when he would rather have cried. His father had most cruelly mortified him, by what he said of Mr. Lensherr's indifference, and he could do nothing but wonder at such a want of penetration, or fear that perhaps, instead of his seeing too little, he might have fancied too much.

 

* * *

 

**Chapter 16**

Instead of receiving any such letter of excuse from his friend, as Charles half expected Mr. McCoy to do, he was able to bring Lensherr with him to Longbourn before many days had passed after Lady Jean's visit. The gentlemen arrived early; and, before Mrs. Xavier had time to tell him of their having seen his aunt, of which her son sat in momentary dread, McCoy, who wanted to be alone with Raven, proposed their all walking out. It was agreed to. Mrs. Xavier was not in the habit of walking; Azazel could never spare time; but the remaining five set off together. McCoy and Raven, however, soon allowed the others to outstrip them. They lagged behind, while Charles, Angel, and Lensherr were to entertain each other. Very little was said by either; Angel was too much afraid of him to talk; Charles was secretly forming a desperate resolution; and perhaps he might be doing the same.

They walked towards the Summerses, because Angel wished to call upon Gabriel; and as Charles saw no occasion for making it a general concern, when Angel left them he went boldly on with him alone. Now was the moment for his resolution to be executed, and, while her courage was high, he immediately said:

“Mr. Lensherr, I am a very selfish creature; and, for the sake of giving relief to my own feelings, care not how much I may be wounding yours. I can no longer help thanking you for your unexampled kindness to my poor sister. Ever since I have known it, I have been most anxious to acknowledge to you how gratefully I feel it. Were it known to the rest of my family, I should not have merely my own gratitude to express.”

“I am sorry, exceedingly sorry,” replied Lensherr, in a tone of surprise and emotion, “That you have ever been informed of what may, in a mistaken light, have given you uneasiness. I did not think Mr. Remy was so little to be trusted.”

“You must not blame my uncle. Emma's thoughtlessness first betrayed to me that you had been concerned in the matter; and, of course, I could not rest till I knew the particulars. Let me thank you again and again, in the name of all my family, for that generous compassion which induced you to take so much trouble, and bear so many mortifications, for the sake of discovering them.”

“If you  _will_  thank me,” He replied, “Let it be for yourself alone. That the wish of giving happiness to you might add force to the other inducements which led me on, I shall not attempt to deny. But your  _family_  owe me nothing. Much as I respect them, I believe I thought only of  _you_.”

Charles was too much embarrassed to say a word. After a short pause, his companion added, “You are too generous to trifle with me. If your feelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once.  _My_  affections and wishes are unchanged, but one word from you will silence me on this subject for ever.”

Charles, feeling all the more than common awkwardness and anxiety of his situation, now forced himself to speak; and immediately, though not very fluently, gave him to understand that his sentiments had undergone so material a change, since the period to which he alluded, as to make him receive with gratitude and pleasure his present assurances. The happiness which this reply produced, was such as he had probably never felt before; and he expressed himself on the occasion as sensibly and as warmly as a man violently in love can be supposed to do. Had Charles been able to encounter his eye, he might have seen how well the expression of heartfelt delight, diffused over his face, became him; but, though he could not look, he could listen, and he told him of feelings, which, in proving of what importance he was to him, made his affection every moment more valuable.

They walked on, without knowing in what direction. There was too much to be thought, and felt, and said, for attention to any other objects. He soon learnt that they were indebted for their present good understanding to the efforts of his aunt, who did call on him in her return through London, and there relate her journey to Longbourn, its motive, and the substance of her conversation with Charles; dwelling emphatically on every expression of the latter which, in her ladyship's apprehension, peculiarly denoted her perverseness and assurance; in the belief that such a relation must assist her endeavours to obtain that promise from her nephew which Charles had refused to give. But, unluckily for her ladyship, its effect had been exactly contrariwise.

“It taught me to hope,” said he, “As I had scarcely ever allowed myself to hope before. I knew enough of your disposition to be certain that, had you been absolutely, irrevocably decided against me, you would have acknowledged it to Lady Jean, frankly and openly.”

Charles coloured and laughed as he replied, “Yes, you know enough of my frankness to believe me capable of  _that_. After abusing you so abominably to your face, I could have no scruple in abusing you to all your relations.”

“What did you say of me, that I did not deserve? For, though your accusations were ill-founded, formed on mistaken premises, my behaviour to you at the time had merited the severest reproof. It was unpardonable. I cannot think of it without abhorrence.”

“We will not quarrel for the greater share of blame annexed to that evening,” said Charles. “The conduct of neither, if strictly examined, will be irreproachable; but since then, we have both, I hope, improved in civility.”

“I cannot be so easily reconciled to myself. The recollection of what I then said, of my conduct, my manners, my expressions during the whole of it, is now, and has been many months, inexpressibly painful to me. Your reproof, so well applied, I shall never forget: ‘had you behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner’. Those were your words. You know not, you can scarcely conceive, how they have tortured me;—though it was some time, I confess, before I was reasonable enough to allow their justice.”

“I was certainly very far from expecting them to make so strong an impression. I had not the smallest idea of their being ever felt in such a way.”

“I can easily believe it. You thought me then devoid of every proper feeling, I am sure you did. The turn of your countenance I shall never forget, as you said that I could not have addressed you in any possible way that would induce you to accept me.”

“Oh! Do not repeat what I then said. These recollections will not do at all. I assure you that I have long been most heartily ashamed of it.”

Lensherr mentioned his letter. “Did it,” said he, “Did it soon make you think better of me? Did you, on reading it, give any credit to its contents?”

Charles explained what its effect on him had been, and how gradually all his former prejudices had been removed.

“I knew,” said Lensherr, “That what I wrote must give you pain, but it was necessary. I hope you have destroyed the letter. There was one part especially, the opening of it, which I should dread your having the power of reading again. I can remember some expressions which might justly make you hate me.”

“The letter shall certainly be burnt, if you believe it essential to the preservation of my regard; but, though we have both reason to think my opinions not entirely unalterable, they are not, I hope, quite so easily changed as that implies.”

“When I wrote that letter,” replied Lensherr, “I believed myself perfectly calm and cool, but I am since convinced that it was written in a dreadful bitterness of spirit.”

“The letter, perhaps, began in bitterness, but it did not end so. The adieu is charity itself. But think no more of the letter. The feelings of the person who wrote, and the person who received it, are now so widely different from what they were then, that every unpleasant circumstance attending it ought to be forgotten. You must learn some of my philosophy. Think only of the past as its remembrance gives you pleasure.”

“I cannot give you credit for any philosophy of the kind. Your retrospections must be so totally void of reproach, that the contentment arising from them is not of philosophy, but, what is much better, of innocence. But with me, it is not so. Painful recollections will intrude which cannot, which ought not, to be repelled. I have been a selfish being all my life, in practice, though not in principle. As a child I was taught what was right, but I was not taught to correct my temper. I was given good principles, but left to follow them in pride and conceit. Unfortunately an only son (for many years an only child), I was spoilt by my parents, who, though good themselves (my father, particularly, all that was benevolent and amiable), allowed, encouraged, almost taught me to be selfish and overbearing; to care for none beyond my own family circle; to think meanly of all the rest of the world; to wish at least to think meanly of their sense and worth compared with my own. Such I was, from eight to eight and twenty; and such I might still have been but for you, dearest, loveliest Charles! What do I not owe you! You taught me a lesson, hard indeed at first, but most advantageous. By you, I was properly humbled. I came to you without a doubt of my reception. You showed me how insufficient were all my pretensions to please a man worthy of being pleased.”

“Had you then persuaded yourself that I should?”

“Indeed I had. What will you think of my vanity? I believed you to be wishing, expecting my addresses.”

“My manners must have been in fault, but not intentionally, I assure you. I never meant to deceive you, but my spirits might often lead me wrong. How you must have hated me after  _that_  evening?”

“Hate you! I was angry perhaps at first, but my anger soon began to take a proper direction.”

“I am almost afraid of asking what you thought of me, when we met at Pemberley. You blamed me for coming?”

“No indeed; I felt nothing but surprise.”

“Your surprise could not be greater than  _mine_  in being noticed by you. My conscience told me that I deserved no extraordinary politeness, and I confess that I did not expect to receive  _more_  than my due.”

“My object then,” replied Lensherr, “Was to show you, by every civility in my power, that I was not so mean as to resent the past; and I hoped to obtain your forgiveness, to lessen your ill opinion, by letting you see that your reproofs had been attended to. How soon any other wishes introduced themselves I can hardly tell, but I believe in about half an hour after I had seen you.”

He then told Charles of Moira's delight in his acquaintance, and of his disappointment at its sudden interruption; which naturally leading to the cause of that interruption, she soon learnt that his resolution of following him from Derbyshire in quest of his sister had been formed before he quitted the inn, and that his gravity and thoughtfulness there had arisen from no other struggles than what such a purpose must comprehend.

Charles expressed his gratitude again, but it was too painful a subject to each, to be dwelt on farther.

“My aunt expressed the strangest thing to me when she tried to dissuade me of my affections.” Lensherr began slowly, hesitantly. Charles felt his heart stop as his mind came to terms with what Lensherr could be alluding to. There was only one thing that could be expressed that could alter his opinion of Charles in any way. Charles hummed a question, too preoccupied to properly answer. “I confess, she likely meant to paint you in a negative light, for that I apologize, but it has only managed to cement my affections for you.”

“What?” Charles flushed and tried to focus on the man before him, not the panic he was feeling.

“Do you have… powers?” Lensherr also blushed at the word, as if the mere _mention_ of powers was enough to embarrass him.

“I can read the minds of others.” Charles admitted, softly. “And can project my thoughts to others. I _don’t_.” He hurriedly assured the abruptly blank features of Mr. Lensherr. “I was taught from an early age that entering the mind of another is not only abhorrent, but also rude and inappropriate and morally wrong. So, I don’t. I have _never_ read your mind, much as I longed to.”

“You…” Lensherr’s face broke into a sudden smile, thought Charles was too busy staring at the ground to see it. “I have powers, too.” Charles’ head snapped up in interest.

“You do?”

“I can manipulate and create magnetic fields.” Lensherr replied. “It’s an ability I’ve always been fond of, and rather proud of, admittedly. Have you _ever_ read someone else’s mind?”

“My uncles have allowed me to practice on them, albeit in a limited manner. And my sister. But none else.” Charles admitted.

“No wonder my aunt was so perturbed.” Lensherr chuckled. “She cannot _stand_ being unable to read another’s mind. She does it to everyone, as much a habit as demanding deference from others. If you projected into her mind, the way she explained it, and refused to allow her into _your_ mind, it comes as no shock to me that she was more than a little upset at the conclusion of your discussion.”

“I admit, I didn’t expect her fervor.” Charles blushed.

“Can you read my mind?” Lensherr asked, eyes focused on Charles.

“It’s impolite.” Charles avoided the question. Yes, he _could_ , but he wouldn’t. His parents had been _adamant_ that he never invade another’s mind.

“I want to know what it’s like.” Lensherr confessed. “With my aunt, it’s always impersonal and detached, like the information is being read from a book. I’ve never met another telepath to know if that’s true for all of them.”

“You _want_ me to read your mind?” Charles asked, blankly.

“Yes.” Lensherr nodded. Charles wasn’t sure what to do with such information. While part of him longed to just reach in and go through Lensherr with the same fervor and determination that Charles read a book, he was wary, from all the leashes his parents imparted upon him, to release his power any further than what he had done with Lady Jean de Grey. But Lensherr was earnest and Charles couldn’t bring himself to deny the childlike excitement lurking in his eyes.

Charles released his tight control on his power, letting himself passively take in what Lensherr was projecting. That alone was enough to make Charles desperate to find _everything_ about Lensherr. Holding himself back, Charles sank into the determined mind of the gentleman. There was so much adoration and affection and _love_ lingering behind the solemn exterior that he projected that Charles almost staggered. Erik Lensherr, for his part, seemed to sense Charles’ presence in his mind, and the affection doubled.

_“Charles?”_

_“I’m here.”_

_“Is this what it feels like for you all the time?”_

_“Not really. I usually am not using my powers.”_

_“What does it feel like if you’re not locking your mind up?”_

Charles concentrated on showing Erik what he was feeling and then released his hold on his passive abilities completely, flooding his mind with the overwhelming sensations of every thought and feeling that was happening everywhere. Erik’s eyes widened as Charles projected _everything_ into his mind. Charles only let him hear the cacophony for a few seconds before he shut the flow of information from both of their minds.

_“That’s what it’s like in my mind if I’m not locking my mind up.”_

Erik did not reply. His eyes were wide and his mouth was agape as he mentally tried to come to terms with what he had just felt. Charles felt his trepidation and awe at the sheer _power_ that Charles had.

_“You’re astoundingly talented.”_

_“Can you show me what you’re capable of?”_ Charles asked, shyly.

_“Of course.”_ Erik raised one hand and with a mental push, lifted a metal chain out from his pocket, revealing his pocket watch. With a gesture, the pocket watch rose to Erik’s chest and the clasp opened and closed a few times. With a final thought, Erik put the pocket watch back in his pocket, using only his mind. Charles gaped.

_“That’s amazing!”_

_“It certainly appears impressive.”_ Erik agreed. _“But knowing what goes through your mind, without any active thoughts, makes it seem a bit superfluous.”_

_“Nonsense. I think it’s amazing.”_

 Finally, Charles withdrew from Erik’s mind, and drew up his mental defenses once again.

After walking several miles in a leisurely manner, and too busy to know anything about it, they found at last, on examining their watches, that it was time to be at home.

“What could become of Mr. McCoy and Raven!” was a wonder which introduced the discussion of their affairs. Erik was delighted with their engagement; his friend had given him the earliest information of it.

“I must ask whether you were surprised?” said Charles.

“Not at all. When I went away, I felt that it would soon happen.”

“That is to say, you had given your permission. I guessed as much.” And though he exclaimed at the term, Charles found that it had been pretty much the case.

“On the evening before my going to London,” said he, “I made a confession to him, which I believe I ought to have made long ago. I told him of all that had occurred to make my former interference in his affairs absurd and impertinent. His surprise was great. He had never had the slightest suspicion. I told him, moreover, that I believed myself mistaken in supposing, as I had done, that your sister was indifferent to him; and as I could easily perceive that his attachment to her was unabated, I felt no doubt of their happiness together.”

Charles could not help smiling at his easy manner of directing his friend.

“Did you speak from your own observation,” said he, “When you told him that my sister loved him, or merely from my information last spring?”

“From the former. I had narrowly observed her during the two visits which I had lately made here; and I was convinced of her affection.”

“And your assurance of it, I suppose, carried immediate conviction to him.”

“It did. McCoy is most unaffectedly modest. His diffidence had prevented his depending on his own judgment in so anxious a case, but his reliance on mine made every thing easy. I was obliged to confess one thing, which for a time, and not unjustly, offended him. I could not allow myself to conceal that your sister had been in town three months last winter, that I had known it, and purposely kept it from him. He was angry. But his anger, I am persuaded, lasted no longer than he remained in any doubt of your sister's sentiments. He has heartily forgiven me now.”

Charles longed to observe that Mr. McCoy had been a most delightful friend; so easily guided that his worth was invaluable; but he checked herself. Charles remembered that Erik had yet to learn to be laughed at, and it was rather too early to begin. In anticipating the happiness of McCoy, which of course was to be inferior only to his own, he continued the conversation till they reached the house. In the hall they parted.


	22. Volume III: Chapters 17 - 19

**Chapter 17**

“My dear Charlie, where can you have been walking to?” was a question which Charles received from Raven as soon as he entered their room, and from all the others when they sat down to table. He had only to say in reply, that they had wandered about, till he was beyond his own knowledge. He coloured as he spoke; but neither that, nor anything else, awakened a suspicion of the truth.

The evening passed quietly, unmarked by anything extraordinary. The acknowledged lovers talked and laughed, the unacknowledged were silent. Erik was not of a disposition in which happiness overflows in mirth; and Charles, agitated and confused, rather _knew_  that he was happy than  _felt_  himself to be so; for, besides the immediate embarrassment, there were other evils before him. He anticipated what would be felt in the family when his situation became known; he was aware that no one liked him but Raven; and even feared that with the others it was a dislike which not all his fortune and consequence might do away.

At night he opened his heart to Raven. Though suspicion was very far from Miss Xavier's general habits, she was absolutely incredulous here.

“You are joking, Charlie. This cannot be!—engaged to Mr. Lensherr! No, no, you shall not deceive me. I know it to be impossible.”

“This is a wretched beginning indeed! My sole dependence was on you; and I am sure nobody else will believe me, if you do not. Yet, indeed, I am in earnest. I speak nothing but the truth. He still loves me, and we are engaged.”

Raven looked at her doubtingly. “Oh, Charlie! It cannot be. I know how much you dislike him.”

“You know nothing of the matter.  _That_  is all to be forgot. Perhaps I did not always love him so well as I do now. But in such cases as these, a good memory is unpardonable. This is the last time I shall ever remember it myself.”

Miss Xavier still looked all amazement. Charles again, and more seriously assured her of its truth.

“Good Heaven! Can it be really so! Yet now I must believe you,” cried Raven. “My dear, dear Charlie, I would—I do congratulate you—but are you certain? Forgive the question—are you quite certain that you can be happy with him?”

“There can be no doubt of that. It is settled between us already, that we are to be the happiest couple in the world. But are you pleased, Raven? Shall you like to have such a brother?”

“Very, very much. Nothing could give either McCoy or myself more delight. But we considered it, we talked of it as impossible. And do you really love him quite well enough? Oh, Charlie! Do anything rather than marry without affection. Are you quite sure that you feel what you ought to do?”

“Oh, yes! You will only think I feel  _more_  than I ought to do, when I tell you all.”

“What do you mean?”

“Why, I must confess that I love him better than I do McCoy. I am afraid you will be angry.”

“My dearest brother, now  _be_  serious. I want to talk very seriously. Let me know every thing that I am to know, without delay. Will you tell me how long you have loved him?”

“It has been coming on so gradually, that I hardly know when it began. But I believe I must date it from my first seeing his beautiful grounds at Pemberley.”

Another entreaty that he would be serious, however, produced the desired effect; and he soon satisfied Raven by his solemn assurances of attachment. When convinced on that article, Miss Xavier had nothing further to wish.

“Now I am quite happy,” said she, “For you will be as happy as myself. I always had a value for him. Were it for nothing but his love of you, I must always have esteemed him; but now, as McCoy's friend and your husband, there can be only McCoy and yourself more dear to me. But Charlie, you have been very sly, very reserved with me. How little did you tell me of what passed at Pemberley and Lambton! I owe all that I know of it to another, not to you.”

Charles told her the motives of his secrecy. He had been unwilling to mention McCoy; and the unsettled state of his own feelings had made him equally avoid the name of his friend. But now he would no longer conceal from her his share in Emma's marriage. All was acknowledged, and half the night spent in conversation.

* * *

“Good gracious!” cried Mrs. Xavier, as she stood at a window the next morning, “If that disagreeable Mr. Lensherr is not coming here again with our dear McCoy! What can he mean by being so tiresome as to be always coming here? I had no notion but he would go a-shooting, or something or other, and not disturb us with his company. What shall we do with him? Charlie, you must walk out with him again, that he may not be in McCoy's way.”

Charles could hardly help laughing at so convenient a proposal; yet was really vexed that his mother should be always giving him such an epithet.

As soon as they entered, McCoy looked at her so expressively, and shook hands with such warmth, as left no doubt of his good information; and he soon afterwards said aloud, “Mrs. Xavier, have you no more lanes hereabouts in which Charlie may lose her way again to-day?”

“I advise Mr. Lensherr, and Charlie, and Angel,” said Mrs. Xavier, “To walk to Oakham Mount this morning. It is a nice long walk, and Mr. Lensherr has never seen the view.”

“It may do very well for the others,” replied Mr. McCoy; “But I am sure it will be too much for Angel. Won't it, Angel?” Angel owned that she had rather stay at home. Erik professed a great curiosity to see the view from the Mount, and Charles silently consented. As he went up stairs to get ready, Mrs. Xavier followed her, saying:

“I am quite sorry, Charlie, that you should be forced to have that disagreeable man all to yourself. But I hope you will not mind it: it is all for Raven's sake, you know; and there is no occasion for talking to him, except just now and then. So, do not put yourself to inconvenience.”

During their walk, it was resolved that Mr. Xavier's consent should be asked in the course of the evening. Charles reserved to himself the application for his mother's. He could not determine how his mother would take it; sometimes doubting whether all his wealth and grandeur would be enough to overcome her abhorrence of the man. But whether she were violently set against the match, or violently delighted with it, it was certain that her manner would be equally ill adapted to do credit to her sense; and she could no more bear that Erik should hear the first raptures of her joy, than the first vehemence of her disapprobation.

* * *

In the evening, soon after Mr. Xavier withdrew to the library, he saw Erik rise also and follow him, and his agitation on seeing it was extreme. He did not fear her father's opposition, but he was going to be made unhappy; and that it should be through her means—that  _he_ , his favourite child, should be distressing him by her choice, should be filling him with fears and regrets in disposing of him—was a wretched reflection, and he sat in misery till Erik appeared again, when, looking at him, he was a little relieved by his smile. In a few minutes he approached the table where she was sitting with Angel; and, while pretending to admire his work said in a whisper, “Go to your father, he wants you in the library.” He was gone directly.

His father was walking about the room, looking grave and anxious. “Charlie,” said he, “What are you doing? Are you out of your senses, to be accepting this man? Have not you always hated him?”

How earnestly did he then wish that his former opinions had been more reasonable, his expressions more moderate! It would have spared him from explanations and professions which it was exceedingly awkward to give; but they were now necessary, and he assured him, with some confusion, of his attachment to Erik.

“Or, in other words, you are determined to have him. He is rich, to be sure, and you may have more fine clothes and fine carriages than Raven. But will they make you happy?”

“Have you any other objection,” said Charles, “Than your belief of my indifference?”

“None at all. We all know him to be a proud, unpleasant sort of man; but this would be nothing if you really liked him.”

“I do, I do like him,” He replied, with tears in his eyes, “I love him. Indeed he has no improper pride. He is perfectly amiable. You do not know what he really is; then pray do not pain me by speaking of him in such terms.”

“Charlie,” said his father, “I have given him my consent. He is the kind of man, indeed, to whom I should never dare refuse anything, which he condescended to ask. I now give it to  _you_ , if you are resolved on having him. But let me advise you to think better of it. I know your disposition, Charlie. I know that you could be neither happy nor respectable, unless you truly esteemed your husband; unless you looked up to him as a superior. Your lively talents would place you in the greatest danger in an unequal marriage. You could scarcely escape discredit and misery. My child, let me not have the grief of seeing  _you_  unable to respect your partner in life. You know not what you are about.”

Charles, still more affected, was earnest and solemn in his reply; and at length, by repeated assurances that Erik was really the object of his choice, by explaining the gradual change which his estimation of him had undergone, relating his absolute certainty that his affection was not the work of a day, but had stood the test of many months' suspense, and enumerating with energy all his good qualities, he did conquer his father's incredulity, and reconcile him to the match.

“Well, my dear,” said he, when Charles ceased speaking, “I have no more to say. If this be the case, he deserves you. I could not have parted with you, my Charlie, to anyone less worthy.”

To complete the favourable impression, Charles then told him what Erik had voluntarily done for Emma. He heard her with astonishment.

“This is an evening of wonders, indeed! And so, Lensherr did every thing; made up the match, gave the money, paid the fellow's debts, and got him his commission! So much the better. It will save me a world of trouble and economy. Had it been your uncle's doing, I must and  _would_  have paid him; but these violent young lovers carry every thing their own way. I shall offer to pay him to-morrow; he will rant and storm about his love for you, and there will be an end of the matter.”

He then recollected Charles’ embarrassment a few days before, on his reading Mr. Cassidy's letter; and after laughing at him some time, allowed him at last to go—saying, as he quitted the room, “If any young men come for Azazel or Angel, send them in, for I am quite at leisure.”

Charles's mind was now relieved from a very heavy weight; and, after half an hour's quiet reflection in his own room, he was able to join the others with tolerable composure. Every thing was too recent for gaiety, but the evening passed tranquilly away; there was no longer anything material to be dreaded, and the comfort of ease and familiarity would come in time.

When his mother went up to her dressing-room at night, Charles followed her, and made the important communication. Its effect was most extraordinary; for on first hearing it, Mrs. Xavier sat quite still, and unable to utter a syllable. Nor was it under many, many minutes that she could comprehend what she heard; though not in general backward to credit what was for the advantage of her family, or that came in the shape of a lover to any of them. She began at length to recover, to fidget about in her chair, get up, sit down again, wonder, and bless herself.

“Good gracious! Lord bless me! Only think! Dear me! Mr. Lensherr! Who would have thought it! And is it really true? Oh! My sweetest Charlie! How rich and how great you will be! What pin-money, what jewels, what carriages you will have! Raven's is nothing to it—nothing at all. I am so pleased—so happy. Such a charming man!—so handsome! So tall!—Oh, my dear Charlie! Pray apologise for my having disliked him so much before. I hope he will overlook it. Dear, dear Charlie. A house in town! Every thing that is charming! Three children married! Ten thousand a year! Oh, Lord! What will become of me. I shall go distracted.”

This was enough to prove that her approbation need not be doubted: and Charles, rejoicing that such an effusion was heard only by himself, soon went away. But before he had been three minutes in his own room, his mother followed him.

“My dearest child,” She cried, “I can think of nothing else! Ten thousand a year, and very likely more! 'Tis as good as a Lord! And a special licence. You must and shall be married by a special licence. But my dearest love, tell me what dish Mr. Lensherr is particularly fond of, that I may have it to-morrow.”

This was a sad omen of what her mother's behaviour to the gentleman himself might be; and Charles found that, though in the certain possession of his warmest affection, and secure of his relations' consent, there was still something to be wished for. But the morrow passed off much better than he expected; for Mrs. Xavier luckily stood in such awe of her intended son-in-law that she ventured not to speak to him, unless it was in her power to offer him any attention, or mark her deference for his opinion.

Charles had the satisfaction of seeing his father taking pains to get acquainted with him; and Mr. Xavier soon assured her that he was rising every hour in his esteem.

“I admire all my three sons-in-law highly,” said he. “Shaw, perhaps, is my favourite; but I think I shall like  _your_  husband quite as well as Raven's.”

 

* * *

 

**Chapter 18**

Charles's spirits soon rising to playfulness again, he wanted Erik to account for his having ever fallen in love with him. “How could you begin?” said he. “I can comprehend your going on charmingly, when you had once made a beginning; but what could set you off in the first place?”

“I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I  _had_  begun.”

“My beauty you had early withstood, and as for my manners—my behaviour to  _you_  was at least always bordering on the uncivil, and I never spoke to you without rather wishing to give you pain than not. Now be sincere; did you admire me for my impertinence?”

“For the liveliness of your mind, I did.”

“You may as well call it impertinence at once. It was very little less. The fact is, that you were sick of civility, of deference, of officious attention. You were disgusted with the people who were always speaking, and looking, and thinking for  _your_  approbation alone. I roused, and interested you, because I was so unlike  _them_. Had you not been really amiable, you would have hated me for it; but in spite of the pains you took to disguise yourself, your feelings were always noble and just; and in your heart, you thoroughly despised the persons who so assiduously courted you. There—I have saved you the trouble of accounting for it; and really, all things considered, I begin to think it perfectly reasonable. To be sure, you knew no actual good of me—but nobody thinks of  _that_  when they fall in love.”

“Was there no good in your affectionate behaviour to Raven while she was ill at Netherfield?”

“Dearest Raven! Who could have done less for her? But make a virtue of it by all means. My good qualities are under your protection, and you are to exaggerate them as much as possible; and, in return, it belongs to me to find occasions for teasing and quarrelling with you as often as may be; and I shall begin directly by asking you what made you so unwilling to come to the point at last. What made you so shy of me, when you first called, and afterwards dined here? Why, especially, when you called, did you look as if you did not care about me?”

“Because you were grave and silent, and gave me no encouragement.”

“But I was embarrassed.”

“And so was I.”

“You might have talked to me more when you came to dinner.”

“A man who had felt less, might.”

“How unlucky that you should have a reasonable answer to give, and that I should be so reasonable as to admit it! But I wonder how long you  _would_  have gone on, if you had been left to yourself. I wonder when you  _would_  have spoken, if I had not asked you! My resolution of thanking you for your kindness to Emma had certainly great effect.  _Too much_ , I am afraid; for what becomes of the moral, if our comfort springs from a breach of promise? For I ought not to have mentioned the subject. This will never do.”

“You need not distress yourself. The moral will be perfectly fair. Lady Jean's unjustifiable endeavours to separate us were the means of removing all my doubts. I am not indebted for my present happiness to your eager desire of expressing your gratitude. I was not in a humour to wait for any opening of yours. My aunt's intelligence had given me hope, and I was determined at once to know every thing.”

“Lady Jean has been of infinite use, which ought to make her happy, for she loves to be of use. But tell me, what did you come down to Netherfield for? Was it merely to ride to Longbourn and be embarrassed? Or had you intended any more serious consequence?”

“My real purpose was to see  _you_ , and to judge, if I could, whether I might ever hope to make you love me. My avowed one, or what I avowed to myself, was to see whether your sister were still partial to McCoy, and if she were, to make the confession to him which I have since made.”

“Shall you ever have courage to announce to Lady Jean what is to befall her?”

“I am more likely to want more time than courage, Charles. But it ought to be done, and if you will give me a sheet of paper, it shall be done directly.”

“And if I had not a letter to write myself, I might sit by you and admire the evenness of your writing, as another young gentleman once did. But I have an uncle, too, who must not be longer neglected.”

From an unwillingness to confess how much his intimacy with Erik had been over-rated, Charles had never yet answered Mr. Remy's long letter; but now, having  _that_  to communicate which he knew would be most welcome, he was almost ashamed to find that her uncles had already lost three days of happiness, and immediately wrote as follows:

_I would have thanked you before, my dear uncle, as I ought to have done, for your long, kind, satisfactory, detail of particulars; but to say the truth, I was too cross to write. You supposed more than really existed. But now suppose as much as you choose; give a loose rein to your fancy, indulge your imagination in every possible flight which the subject will afford, and unless you believe me actually married, you cannot greatly err. You must write again very soon, and praise him a great deal more than you did in your last. I thank you, again and again, for not going to the Lakes. How could I be so silly as to wish it! Your idea of the ponies is delightful. We will go round the Park every day. I am the happiest creature in the world. Perhaps other people have said so before, but not one with such justice. I am happier even than Raven; she only smiles, I laugh. Mr. Lensherr sends you all the love in the world that he can spare from me. You are all to come to Pemberley at Christmas._

_Yours, etc._

Erik's letter to Lady Jean was in a different style; and still different from either was what Mr. Xavier sent to Mr. Cassidy, in reply to his last.

_DEAR SIR,_

_I must trouble you once more for congratulations. Charles will soon be the husband of Mr. Lensherr. Console Lady Jean as well as you can. But, if I were you, I would stand by the nephew. He has more to give._

_Yours sincerely, etc._

Mr. Janos’ congratulations to his brother, on his approaching marriage, were all that was affectionate and insincere. He wrote even to Raven on the occasion, to express his delight, and repeat all his former professions of regard. Raven was not deceived, but she was affected; and though feeling no reliance on her, could not help writing her a much kinder answer than she knew was deserved.

The joy which Miss Lensherr expressed on receiving similar information, was as sincere as her brother's in sending it. Four sides of paper were insufficient to contain all her delight, and all her earnest desire of being loved by her brother.

Before any answer could arrive from Mr. Cassidy, or any congratulations to Charles from his husband, the Longbourn family heard that the Cassidyes were come themselves to Lucas Lodge. The reason of this sudden removal was soon evident. Lady Jean had been rendered so exceedingly angry by the contents of her nephew's letter, that Alex, really rejoicing in the match, was anxious to get away till the storm was blown over. At such a moment, the arrival of his friend was a sincere pleasure to Charles, though in the course of their meetings he must sometimes think the pleasure dearly bought, when he saw Erik exposed to all the parading and obsequious civility of his husband. He bore it, however, with admirable calmness. He could even listen to Sir Christopher Summers, when he complimented him on carrying away the brightest jewel of the country, and expressed his hopes of their all meeting frequently at St. James's, with very decent composure. If he did shrug his shoulders, it was not till Sir Christopher was out of sight.

Mrs. Munroe's vulgarity was another, and perhaps a greater, tax on his forbearance; and though Mrs. Munroe, as well as her sister, stood in too much awe of him to speak with the familiarity which McCoy's good humour encouraged, yet, whenever she  _did_  speak, she must be vulgar. Nor was her respect for him, though it made her more quiet, at all likely to make her more elegant. Charles did all he could to shield him from the frequent notice of either, and was ever anxious to keep him to himself, and to those of his family with whom he might converse without mortification; and though the uncomfortable feelings arising from all this took from the season of courtship much of its pleasure, it added to the hope of the future; and he looked forward with delight to the time when they should be removed from society so little pleasing to either, to all the comfort and elegance of their family party at Pemberley.

 

* * *

 

**Chapter 19**

Happy for all her maternal feelings was the day on which Mrs. Xavier got rid of her two most deserving children. With what delighted pride she afterwards visited Mrs. McCoy, and talked of Mr. Lensherr, may be guessed. I wish I could say, for the sake of her family, that the accomplishment of her earnest desire in the establishment of so many of her children produced so happy an effect as to make her a sensible, amiable, well-informed woman for the rest of her life; though perhaps it was lucky for her husband, who might not have relished domestic felicity in so unusual a form, that she still was occasionally nervous and invariably silly.

Mr. Xavier missed his second child exceedingly; his affection for him drew him oftener from home than anything else could do. He delighted in going to Pemberley, especially when he was least expected.

Mr. McCoy and Raven remained at Netherfield only a twelvemonth. So near a vicinity to her mother and Meryton relations was not desirable even to  _his_  easy temper, or  _her_  affectionate heart. The darling wish of his brothers was then gratified; he bought an estate in a neighbouring county to Derbyshire, and Raven and Charles, in addition to every other source of happiness, were within thirty miles of each other.

Angel, to her very material advantage, spent the chief of her time with her two elder siblings. In society so superior to what she had generally known, her improvement was great. She was not of so ungovernable a temper as Emma; and, removed from the influence of Emma's example, she became, by proper attention and management, less irritable, less ignorant, and less insipid. From the further disadvantage of Emma's society she was of course carefully kept, and though Mrs. Shaw frequently invited her to come and stay with her, with the promise of balls and young men, her father would never consent to her going.

Azazel was the only child who remained at home; and he was necessarily drawn from the pursuit of accomplishments by Mrs. Xavier's being quite unable to sit alone. Azazel was obliged to mix more with the world, but he could still moralize over every morning visit; and as he was no longer mortified by comparisons between his siblings' beauty and his own, it was suspected by his father that he submitted to the change without much reluctance.

As for Shaw and Emma, their characters suffered no revolution from the marriage of her siblings. He bore with philosophy the conviction that Charles must now become acquainted with whatever of his ingratitude and falsehood had before been unknown to him; and in spite of every thing, was not wholly without hope that Erik might yet be prevailed on to make his fortune. The congratulatory letter which Charles received from Emma on his marriage, explained to him that, by his wife at least, if not by himself, such a hope was cherished. The letter was to this effect:

_MY DEAR CHARLIE,_

_I wish you joy. If you love Mr. Lensherr half as well as I do my dear Shaw, you must be very happy. It is a great comfort to have you so rich, and when you have nothing else to do, I hope you will think of us. I am sure Shaw would like a place at court very much, and I do not think we shall have quite money enough to live upon without some help. Any place would do, of about three or four hundred a year; but however, do not speak to Mr. Lensherr about it, if you had rather not._

_Yours, etc._

As it happened that Charles had  _much_  rather not, he endeavoured in his answer to put an end to every entreaty and expectation of the kind. Such relief, however, as it was in his power to afford, by the practice of what might be called economy in his own private expences, he frequently sent them. It had always been evident to him that such an income as theirs, under the direction of two persons so extravagant in their wants, and heedless of the future, must be very insufficient to their support; and whenever they changed their quarters, either Raven or himself were sure of being applied to for some little assistance towards discharging their bills. Their manner of living, even when the restoration of peace dismissed them to a home, was unsettled in the extreme. They were always moving from place to place in quest of a cheap situation, and always spending more than they ought. His affection for her soon sunk into indifference; hers lasted a little longer; and in spite of her youth and her manners, she retained all the claims to reputation which her marriage had given her.

Though Erik could never receive  _him_  at Pemberley, yet, for Charles's sake, he assisted him further in his profession. Emma was occasionally a visitor there, when her husband was gone to enjoy himself in London or Bath; and with the McCoys they both of them frequently staid so long, that even McCoy's good humour was overcome, and he proceeded so far as to talk of giving them a hint to be gone.

Mr. Janos was very deeply mortified by Erik's marriage; but as he thought it advisable to retain the right of visiting at Pemberley, he dropt all his resentment; was fonder than ever of Moira, almost as attentive to Erik as heretofore, and paid off every arrear of civility to Charles.

Pemberley was now Moira's home; and the attachment of the siblings was exactly what Erik had hoped to see. They were able to love each other even as well as they intended. Moira had the highest opinion in the world of Charles; though at first she often listened with an astonishment bordering on alarm at his lively, sportive, manner of talking to her brother. He, who had always inspired in herself a respect which almost overcame her affection, she now saw the object of open pleasantry. Her mind received knowledge which had never before fallen in her way. By Charles's instructions, she began to comprehend that a person may take liberties with their spouse which a brother will not always allow in a sister more than ten years younger than himself.

Lady Jean was extremely indignant on the marriage of her nephew; and as she gave way to all the genuine frankness of her character in her reply to the letter which announced its arrangement, she sent him language so very abusive, especially of Charles, that for some time all intercourse was at an end. But at length, by Charles's persuasion, he was prevailed on to overlook the offence, and seek a reconciliation; and, after a little further resistance on the part of his aunt, her resentment gave way, either to her affection for him, or her curiosity to see how his husband conducted himself; and she condescended to wait on them at Pemberley, in spite of that pollution which its woods had received, not merely from the presence of such a master, but the visits of his uncles from the city.

With the Howletts, they were always on the most intimate terms. Erik, as well as Charles, really loved them; and they were both ever sensible of the warmest gratitude towards the persons who, by bringing him into Derbyshire, had been the means of uniting them.


End file.
